Tabula Rasa
by blueoceandragon
Summary: Hermione's memory is wiped while being subjected to the Cruciatus at Malfoy Manor. Draco convinces his family and the Dark Lord he can fill her empty mind with new memories and turn her formidable power to their own ends. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This story was originally posted on Hawthorne & Vine and I am reviving it here. It will be about 24 chapters which I hope to publish weekly. Feedback is greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy! Note that I am not JK Rowling and claim no ownership or copyright of her material.**

**4/8 - I fixed some of the formatting errors in this chapter. **

The screaming paused, as it had every minute that had felt like an hour prior, but it did not resume this time. A moment before, Ron would have given anything for it to stop. Now, he thought he'd give anything to hear it start back up; he could think of one reason Hermione's screams would have been cut off, and that reason was far worse than the screams had been. His bloodshot eyes were saucers, utterly full of panic as he glanced towards Harry and gasped out only "Hermione." Harry mustered out a "maybe she was rescued" but his tone belied his words. Tears carved tracks through the grime on Ron's face as he fell silent, praying he might hear something, anything that meant she was alive. He prayed she was silent because she'd betrayed the Order, prayed he could take her place, prayed anything as long as her silence wasn't permanent.

In the interludes between the Cruciatus, Bella made a passing attempt to extract information from her victim. Draco stood against a wall, trying to decide whether he hoped she caved and made the screaming stop or whether he hoped she might hold out and with her sacrifice permit the resistance against the Dark Lord to continue. His internal monologue was whispered in the back of his mind; his main focus was on blocking out the awful reality of what was happening. This was usually his main focus, his consciousness sent out to play in the back like a neglected child.

It took him a moment to realize that this interlude was different. Hermione's face had gone slack when the seizures stopped, and she looked confused rather than defiant. Draco didn't hear Bella's question, he only saw the utter confusion on the face of the bleeding, shaking girl on the floor. She opened her mouth, grimaced and gently shook her head. Despite the madness that seemed to course through her veins in lieu of blood, his aunt also seemed to note the difference. She cocked her head to the side, like a curious dog. A curious, rabid dog, Draco amended. He couldn't see her eyes, but was sure they looked on with crazed, predatory intent.

She knelt down by the girl and cooed. Draco flinched at her tone; a gentle Aunt Bella was an unknown Aunt Bella and she was unpredictable at the best of times. "Do you know who I am little girl?" Hermione closed her eyes, and her face scrunched in a mockery of her usual concentrating face-the pain did that, Draco guessed. "You seem familiar, maybe?" Hermione murmured. There was a long pause. "But no, I don't know." Her tone was guileless, nothing like the defiance she had displayed earlier. Bella whirled suddenly towards Draco. "Little Draco, maybe you could _see _if our friend is lying?" Draco nodded stiffly. If the Cruciatus really had wiped her mind… well, Bella would probably just kill her then. The thought made him feel heavier and sadder than he'd have expected.

His body was well-trained in the art of obeying while his mind continued its wandering, and he soon found himself kneeling by his former classmate. He scooped her head in his hand, lifting it slightly so he could look into her eyes. She whimpered in pain, and he chided himself for making her last moments worse than they had to be. Her eyes narrowed at him slightly, but not in the judgmental way he was used to. It seemed as if she were trying to place him, but couldn't quite manage. He couldn't decide if the feeling that elicited was relief or sorrow. Probably neither.

He thought about saying something to comfort her, but couldn't think of what to say that would actually help or get him killed in the processes. Instead, he let his consciousness slip into hers. She made no attempt to block him as he rummaged through her thoughts. Her uppermost thoughts which mostly consisted of pain, wondering about the source of the pain. Confusion as to why she was surrounded by faces she only vaguely recognized. He delved deeper, but she threw up no defenses-his second sign that something was, indeed, wrong. He traveled into what he considered the core of the mind, where the memories were kept; it wasn't usually this easy to penetrate, except with, perhaps, a child who knew no better.

Hermione's mind was incredibly organized. His Legilimens-self snorted. She'd organized her mind into a library-of course she had. Looking closer at the shelves, he realized they were organized chronologically, although she had special shelved dedicated to particular subjects. He bypassed 'potions' and 'transfiguration' and grabbed a book at random from the shelf marked 'first year'. He flipped it open and saw images of the Great Hall during the sorting ceremony. The warm memory almost made him forget that, in reality, he was kneeling over what would soon be her corpse. He flipped the page. It was blank. Curious, he thumbed the edge so the pages cascaded quickly by. A few pages were full and colored, but mostly they were blank. Draco sighed and repeated the exercise with another tome to the same effect. The Cruciatus had ripped away random memories, leaving a confused shell of a person. Who would soon cease to be even that.

Draco was about to exit and deliver the report that would probably doom her, when his previous thought "random memories" started echoing in his mind like alarm bells. He started flipping through the current book again, and then the one previous. He hadn't seen any reference to Ron, Harry, Dumbledore even despite their prevalence in surely every aspect of the golden girl's life. There were no references to him, or the Death Eaters either. He darted to the next shelf, rummaged through books in year 4 to confirm. The Triwizard Tournament was there, but only a handful of her memories-innocuous, like the Yule Ball with Krum-remained. "Clever girl," he murmured to himself. He didn't know if it had been conscious or not-probably had, given that she is the brightest witch and all that-but she'd removed all references her mind had to the current conflict. So she couldn't betray them, even if she was too weakened by the pain to resist Legilimency, he realized.

He stood, motionless, in her mind for a while longer. He was impressed both that she'd figured out how to do it-channel the madness that came with the Cruciatus like a knife to excise her memories-and that she'd had the foresight and bravery to follow through. He stood there for a moment longer, because the longest future she could hope for was as a torture device to urge his companions into submission, and he didn't really want to see that. A strange Granger-built library was much preferable.

Time moved differently in a mind, but finally Draco decided he'd probably been there too long. It was time to face the reality of the world Hermione had trimmed from her mind. Would that he could do the same.

Draco blinked, breaking his connection with the prone girl. Released from his Legilimency, she blinked as well, still with that curious look on her face. Bella, in contrast, looked livid. Well, that was to be expected. She was probably impatient to make someone bleed.

"Well?" she snapped. At least she had given up the creepy baby talk.

Draco answered slowly. In Hermione's mind, the outside world had seemed too distant, immutable, but out here, out here he _could _change things and an amorphous plan was quickly taking shape in his head. He answered cooly, clinically. "Her memories have been gutted. I'd say she only remembers a hundredth of her life. She's almost a tabula rasa." He tried to say the last part calmly, as if he weren't setting himself up for anything, but he had chosen his words carefully.

Bella pouted, "No answers from the little Mudblood then. Pity. She was going to cry so prettily when she realized she'd betrayed them." She paused. Draco could almost hear the crazed voices whispering suggestions to her. Her eyes flicked back and forth, as if she looked at each invisible voice as it dripped its poison in her ears. "I could maybe just cut off a few pieces and send them to the boys. That would be fun," she finally commented. Her eyes roved over Hermione, who had gone back to looking terrified. Hermione's eyes clawed at him as if he could save her. He hoped he could.

This was it. This was the moment to decide if his hasty plan was worth pursuing. It didn't have an end-game, not really, but he hadn't seen any flaw with this phase of it. Yet. He took a breath and did the bravest thing he'd yet to do; he said, "Actually, Aunt Bella, I have an idea."

His parents' heads snapped towards him. He'd forgotten they were there. A bubble of resentment rose in him; his parents, standing still as statues watching, while he sparred with his mad aunt. He cast a silencing charm around Hermione's prone figure so she wouldn't hear their next words. Although, even if he succeeded, an Obliviate for the last half hour or so would be necessary anyway. "We've just been handed an incredible tool. She doesn't remember Harry, Ron, or even the fight with the Dark Lord. But she's still an immensely powerful witch, dirty blood aside. An immensely powerful witch we can mould into a weapon. And better yet, a weapon our enemies would hesitate to kill." He watched his aunt carefully. She had initially looked despondent at the mere thought of losing her toy, but as he spoke, she perked up. "Yes," she hissed. "A mindless Mudblood weapon. It's almost poetic. The power to control magic back in the hands of its rightful owners." Bella closed her eyes, and swayed slowly as if she danced to the poetry only she could hear. "She'll be my own special pet…"

Draco carefully cut her off, careful not to cringe as her hands involuntarily tightened into claws at the mention of the word pet and tried not to the think of the skinned animals that sometimes littered the manner in her wake. Pets indeed. "Dearest Aunt, surely your efforts are too important to the Dark Lord to spend time trying to go through the tedious, slow process of filling her head with new thoughts." He tried to emphasize the slow part, hoping her natural impatience would act in his favor. Hoping stroking her ego would keep her from making rash decisions.

He schooled his features into a mask of hopeful contrition. "And I do so want an opportunity to prove myself to our Lord. I went to school with her, so I could weave a story that jibes with her remaining memories easily. Such a tedious task might be well suited to me." He stopped there. Brevity was best. Let his Aunt build on his reasoning, decide on her own it was a good idea.

She seemed to ponder for eternity. Finally, she sketched a wicked grin. "Good boy, Little Draco. Finally taking some initiative and not whinging about the wee tasks we've assigned you." She swept her hand to the side in a grandiose gesture of offering; Hermione was his.

Draco nodded his thanks, not daring or bothering to look at his parents. Hermione had passed into a semi-conscious state for all he could tell. He shot a quick Obliviate to remove the discussion after her torture from her broken mind and followed it with a sleeping spell. He waited a few breathes before he knelt beside her, molded his expression into one of concern and whispered the counter-spell. Hermione slowly roused, her eyes fluttering open with a moan. She met his teary eyes after a moment.

He plastered a relieved smile on his face and hoped Bella wasn't leering over his shoulder. "Oh, darling, you're finally awake! How do you feel? I was so worried!" Her eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed, in confusion or pain. Probably both.

"What happened?" Her voice was raspy and tired.

"You got hit by a rogue spell while you were out shopping. For books," he amended, remembering the organization of her mind. "I Apparated you right back home, but didn't want to move you once we were here." He glanced behind him. His parents had moved closer and looked gravely concerned. Possibly concerned for his longevity, possibly they were playing along. Probably the former. Bella looked like a small child being allowed to watch a delightful show, even licking her lips in anticipation. He'd have to come up with a good story to explain her. Or tell Hermione the truth-that she's a crazy old bat.

"I feel so, hazy. Empty," Hermione whimpered. "And I _hurt_."

"I know, my pet." He wished he hadn't chosen that affectionate term so soon after Bella's comments. "If you're feeling up to it, I'll take you up to your room." She nodded. He cast a spell to make her lighter and carefully gathered her in his arms, murmuring meaningless comfort to her. _You'll feel better. I'll take care of you, sweet. _The responsibility he'd taken on had started to crush him. He couldn't think of that yet. He had to get out of this room intact first. He winked at his aunt and was rewarded with a demented smirk. He nodded at his parents. One last step: setting up her new story.

As he reached the door, he snapped out to his family. "I want a healer sent up five minutes ago. And then, so help me, I will find out who dared hex my fiancée."


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks for reading so far! I'm posting a bit early because I was so energized by the number of reviews / follows / favorites! I appreciate the feedback you've given; I will try to make dialogue formatting clearer.

JessicaImpossible & AmeliaBlackwell: sorry, no spoilers!

* * *

Draco gently settled Hermione onto the bed of the room next to his. The situation felt surreal-Mudblood Hermione, again unconscious-in a bed in his house. His fiancee Hermione. He cringed a little at his own theatrics. Then again, this set-up would provide a reason-to her-for him to spend so much time with him and would mark her-to his comrades in arms-as his own project, his territory. It was a good plan, he assured himself, if a little… intimate.

Hermione had started moaning again, her facial muscles twitching as she ground her teeth in a futile attempt to block the pain. Draco glanced at the fireplace, wondering where the Healer was. The man was paid enough to happily overlook the gaps in his memory that inevitably appeared whenever he visited the Manor, but that payment was contingent on the man appearing when called.

Fortunately for the Healer, Draco had only enough time to think of two or three dark hexes he would like to practice on the tardy man when he stumbled through the fireplace, hasty apologies on his lips. Draco didn't bother to hide his worry at Hermione's state; the man's memory was forfeit anyways, and even dear Auntie Bella would approve of his concern for a project for the Dark Lord. Hermione herself seemed vampirically pale, the blood and grime cake on her porcelain skin making her pallor more pronounced. The Mudblood coated in muddy blood, how apt.

The Healer danced his wand over Hermione, occasionally whispering diagnostic spells. The wand tip lit up at almost every incantation; wherever he looked for damage, he seemed to find it. Draco's head felt light, his body heavy. If she died… this risk would be for nothing. His classmate would be gone, forever just a memory of pompous academic and moral superiority. His own position among the Death Eaters would be more precarious; proposing a plan was good-risky, but showed initiative as dear Auntie Bella had said-but failing at a task, no matter how difficult or how self-imposed… well, he needed to stop thinking about that.

A crash from downstairs jarred him from his spiralling thoughts. Neither the Healer nor Hermione flinched. He idly wondered whether Bella had knocked out a wall, again, in a fit of pique or whether that was somehow part of her torture of Hermione's witless companions. Or something had gone wrong. That possibility-never far from his thoughts-set his heart racing and feet moving towards the exit. He had almost reached the door when he glanced back at Hermione. It was probably safe to leave her with the Healer, but there was also probably nothing wrong downstairs. More wrong than usual, at least. His eyes slid to Hermione again, before deciding that ignoring a possible calamity downstairs was the worse of his options and hurried out of this sickroom.

* * *

The source of the crash was immediately apparent when Draco arrived downstairs. The chandelier lay in a heap of mangled metal, wax, and crystal. Bellatrix crouched over a lumpy object next to it while his parents conversed in the corner. He strode over his parents, who quickly explained that the traitor house-elf had Apparated into the dungeons and whisked the remains of the Golden Trio away in a neat circumvention of the wards guarding the Manor's guests. The elf had come back for Hermione and was rewarded by Bellatrix dropping a chandelier on his head for his efforts; apparently the flair for dramatics was a family trait. Draco glanced over at his aunt; the lumpy object was, in fact, an elf's broken body. His aunt was busy carving off pieces and muttering how they'd make nice "presents" for Potter. The useless part of Draco's mind wondered who had thought of the brilliant idea to use a former Malfoy house-elf to get around the wards. He wondered if it had been Hermione; she'd always had a strange fondness for the creatures, and wouldn't have underestimated their magic like most wizards would, like the Malfoys had. Ironic then, that she'd been the one the elf hadn't saved. Then again, not that she'd know now if it had been her plan.

The reality of the situation slammed into Draco. Public enemies one through three had been present in their house, and two of them had escaped. Harry-freaking-Potter, Achilles-Heel-of-the-Dark-Lord had escaped. Draco felt his world spin as nausea gripped his stomach. His eyes rested on his Aunt, who looked like nothing more than a child playing in a sandbox, if the sand were blood, of course. His father's clipped, political voice was already running through the sanitized version of events that would-hopefully-shift the blame away from the Malfoy family. Had Greyback really secured the prisoners? He had probably delayed, wanting to taste them for himself, allowed them to escape… Lucius would look around the dungeon to corroborate his suspicions, or plant evidence, as the need arose. Draco nodded curtly, his father's plan sounding more like a paper shield against the Killing Curse than a viable plan. He turned on his heel and ran back to the guest room.

* * *

Later that evening, Hermione rested in a Healer induced coma, oblivious to the trial the Dark Lord was conducting downstairs. She was still too pale, but the Healer felt her likelihood of survival was high. Lucky her. Draco wished for such a bright future. He had lost his dinner earlier considering how unlikely his survival was. Now, he stood in the chilly ballroom, gaudy dancers and lavish spreads replaced by robed Death Eaters and a madman on an impromptu throne. Draco had thought he hated the parties-dancing very properly with his father's friends' wives and eligible daughters, making insipid conversation with those same guests. What he wouldn't give now to wake up from this nightmare and return to those times.

The ridiculous superposition of the current events with the Malfoy parties continued on in Draco's mind. He wondered if this is what his aunt's world was always like, a hallucinatory mix of reality and fantasy. Instead of a band, the Dark Lord-sprawled lazily across the carved bone chair he'd scrounged from the Nott Manor-was asking, in a calm voice that belied his fury for an explanation of the utter incompetence that had resulted in the prisoners' disappearance. Draco knew he should feel afraid, but his capacity for emotion seemed to have fled earlier with his stomach contents. His father and aunt answered the question, their opposing demeanors a perfect counterpoint to each other. Lucius plied his story of an operation filled with incompetence that he struggled to corral in a clinical, detached tone. He spun his words to implicate Greyback in the prisoner's escape, subtly enough that he could deny he'd made an accusation should the werewolf take umbrage. Bella, the fire to his father's ice, inadvertently bolstered Lucius' claims as she raged against the dubious loyalties of the mindless lackeys that polluted their presence. She had, like a house-elf Draco noted with a mix of scorn and amusement, punished herself by carving the word "failure" into her arm with a cursed blade and begged for a chance to redeem herself-preferably by purging the room of all those less devoted than she.

Lord Voldemort had looked on, stone-faced. After the pageantry of the Malfoy-Lestrange explanation, a charged silence blanketed the room. "I see," was the only presage to the punishments he meted out. He then magically bound Lucius, arms akimbo mid-air, and conjured fiery whips that flicked out at Lucius of their own volition. It was, he stated in the silences between the whip-cracks, an educational moment, an illustration of how to properly restrain prisoners. The cloying scent of charred flesh filled the air. He then sent Bella to the fetch the Snatchers, whom he allowed her to kill with the Sectumsepra curse Snape had taught her. The woman cried with joy at being allowed to perform such an act of contrition. Then the Dark Lord turned his own wand on Greyback, the Cruciatus firing out of it like a lightning bolt. The ballroom was now slick with blood and echoed with screams, yet Draco felt his heart lift a little at the fact that no one-he glanced as the flayed Snatchers' corpses-well no one important, was dead yet. The Dark Lord was in a good mood today.

The werewolf convulsed at the Dark Lord's feet, a broken supplicant as Voldemort turned his attention to Draco. "My child," the Dark Lord crooned, "I hear you have a gift for me."

Draco tried to channel the subservient competence his father seemed to have perfected, while his mind raced in worry. His plan seemed so feeble, so fragile as he walked towards the snake-man on his throne of bones and blood.

"My Lord, I have an initiative I hope you will grant me the boon of carrying out. The mudblood girl, Harry Potter's surrogate brain and dear companion, lost most of her memory during her," he paused, "interrogation." The words flowed easily, the veneer of respectful confidence easy to don after months of practice. "I checked her memory myself, Lord, it has been wiped almost totally clean. I thought, despite her base ancestry, that she is powerful and seems to learn quickly. With her mind empty, we can fill her mind with whatever you wish, convince her she's always been on our side, turn her into our weapon." He stopped, then amended, "And Potter will be devastated."

The madman laughed. "A gift indeed! The mudblood on a platter, ready as a weapon or as a lure to get Potter. It is a charming plan. It will serve to amuse me if nothing else, I suppose. Though, why Draco, should I not give this little project to another?" The Dark Lord's voice was light, teasing. Provisionally, a good sign.

Draco bowed low. "My Lord, you may of course give this project to anyone you wish. I had hoped you might grant me this task as a chance to redeem myself after my failure last year. I know now that I have much to learn before I can hope to be as effective as the others, but I hoped this task might be a good match for my developing skills." A touch of humility, a desire to improve-hopefully the man would interpret any desperateness that leaked through as stemming from his hope for redemption.

The silence seemed to stretch on for eons. Finally, Voldemort waved his hand in a lazy dismissal. "Go on, get back to your little pretend fiancee while the adults continue our chat." Draco bowed again and walked briskly out of the macabre ballroom, hoping he could leave before the screaming started again.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for reading thus far! I'm glad folks are enjoying it. Sorry about the slight delay; I'm traveling and had really poor internet.

DeeD59, Amanita Nightshade: I was sad writing that about Dobby too, but it seemed to fit

* * *

A glorified nursemaid, for a sodding Mudblood. That is what he'd been reduced to. And the "glorified" part was really a stretch. She needed to be kept warm, spoon-fed broth during the few times she woke up without shaking uncontrollably, cold-compresses held to her forehead… The actions seemed archaic, but apparently using magic to alleviate her symptoms could delay recovery by confusing her body's attempts to use its own magic to re-knit the Cruciatus damage. He had carefully sponged the grime off her face and arms, changed her sheets when she sweated through them in a fever. The house elves helped whenever they were free, but with a manor full of Deatheaters, the Dark Lord, and his own rather high-maintenance parents, some responsibility still fell to Draco. Draco tried not to dwell on the idea that the house elves' time was more prized than his own and rather see it as the first step in his plan; Hermione would wake up to find her devoted fiancee caring for her. He was scheming, not nursemaid-ing. Laying the groundwork for his brilliant plan.

He glared at the pale witch tucked comfortably under the fluffiest comforter the house elves could find. Well, comfortably might have been an overstatement; if she awoke, she screamed and whimpered in pain, mumbling incoherently, so she was probably in pain now too. Draco sighed. At least the Healer thought her prognosis was good. The man came to check on her twice a day, his wand lighting up fewer times each visit. Draco had concluded she was improving, or at very least that her condition wasn't worsening. For the umpteenth time over the last three days, he questioned the merits of fanatical Obliviation. The downside to Obliviating Healers was that every time they saw a patient was the first time, so metrics like "improvement" had to be cobbled together by comparing his comments from the day before. Then again, the upside was forestalled betrayal.

Hermione stirred in her sleep, which Draco interpreted as his cue to settle at the desk and research. Eventually, she would wake up and do more than voice pained screeches. Hopefully. No, definitely; now wasn't the time for doubts! His long fingers flipped through files he'd had pilfered from the Ministry. Hermione's early life, her time at Hogwarts; the records were the bureaucratic imprint of her life in the magical world. It was the scaffolding on which he would construct her "memories" of their relationship.

* * *

Half-way through day five, Draco had added several philosophy tomes to his research for Project Mudblood. Originally, his plan had been to construct a quick story about how they'd met at school and fallen in love, and tell her that the Order members had hexed her. Then teach her some Dark Curses, sic her on the Order. So, he had read Hermione's files, learned just how well she had done in the absurd number of classes she'd taken at Hogwarts, chuckled as he learned how she'd manifested her magic in the Muggle world by burning her classmates' fingers if they'd dog-eared books. Charming, but ultimately, unhelpful. With growing trepidation, he realized then that as her fiancee, he'd be expected to know things about her, but probably more mundane things, like her favorite color. He had no idea what her favorite color was. Probably red, with gold as close second?

Which, had raised the question: was a favorite color an intrinsic trait, an immutable fact core to her personality, or, could he just pick one? If he picked the wrong one, would she sense something was wrong? Or, would her belief that she had a different favorite color fundamentally alter her personality? Favorite color probably wasn't that important in the grand scheme of things, but it did make him wonder about how much of this backstory he could tweak towards his end goals and how much he needed to tailor to her underlying… well, he wasn't sure what he needed to tailor it to. Thus, the philosophy books. He also decided to practice calling her "Hermione" in his head so he wouldn't accidentally call her "Granger." Surnames seemed like odd-form for fiancees, although it felt quite unnatural. Oblivious to his hard work, Gra-er, Hermione-slept, awaking fewer times than days previous screaming bloody murder.

On day eight, he added several romantic books to his reading list. Several of them were Muggle, chosen based on Hermione's library check-out list from Hogwarts; he owed Pansy an unconscionable amount of chocolate for filching those. In addition to constructing a new past for Hermione, he had to invent a _relationship _for both of them, and knowing what sort of romantic hogwash she was interested in seemed like the best way of spinning a tale she'd believe. He had tried to think of a realistic way they'd have fallen for each other, but for him, short of her having been a better groomed, pureblood witch, his mind had been uncharacteristically blank. And, of course, their story had to leave out any mention of their opposite affiliations in this ongoing war, which excluded any stories wherein she adopted him as a poor wayward stray house elf; her rescuing him would not lead her to fight for the Dark Lord. So, he read about Mr. Darcy, to whom he rather related to as a fellow rich, intelligent individual, differences in magical abilities aside. Hermione looked peaceful in her sleep that day, and Draco reckoned she'd be awake and cogent enough soon to start asking questions.

* * *

The next morning, when Draco walked into her room, her eyes were open. Draco felt his face go slack with surprise-he'd been both hoping for and dreading this moment, when his plan actually began-before he morphed it into a large smile and rushed over to her. "Darling," he gushed. He _should _have spent time thinking of a good pet name for her, rather than deciding where they had had their first date; the pet name turned out to have been much more pressing and "darling" felt stilted and antiquated on his tongue.

"I'm so glad you're awake!" His voice was a soft caress, his relief evident in his tone.

Hermione's jaw jutted forward slightly and her eyes tightened in confusion; unlike the expression "eager-anticipation-of-being-called-on"-with which he was all too familiar-"bewilderment" on Hermione's know-it-all mug was a new experience for Draco. He decided he'd treasure this memory, maybe put it in a Pensieve to re-watch later; he deserved some levity after the stress of the last week. He maintained a hopeful, yet worried mask despite his gleeful thoughts.

Hermione heaved a frustrated sigh, wincing at the movement.

"I don't remember," she finally whispered, voice sounding raw and weak, "anything except hurting. So much."

Her breath had hitched on anything, and the pace of her breathing had steadily increased. Draco realized she was moments away from crying. He shifted his weight onto the bed and gingerly put an arm around her shoulders.

"Don't worry, love. It'll come back."

She sagged into his chest, sobbing brokenly as each movement caused a new burst of pain to radiate throughout her chest. He continued to murmur quiet comfort to her, until Hermione sank back into sleep.

"Disconcerted" was not a state in which Draco often found himself. He considered himself well-versed in the ways of assigning happenings that might flummox others into his vast set of preconceived opinions. But, thinking back to Hermione's actions the day before, he found himself utterly at a loss. His presence and his words had clearly comforted her; she had moved closer to him, eventually falling asleep because of his actions. It filled him with a warm, fiery pride akin only to the joy he felt at flying. She'd sought his comfort, because in her hazy, pain filled memories of the last week, it had been his tender ministrations that had greeted her when she awoke; or at least, he assumed. He didn't think he had a naturally comforting demeanor otherwise. But layered over those warm thoughts, a patina of grime, was the knowledge that her trust was misbegotten, an exploitation of her memoryless state. She had curled up to him, needing him, while his papers across the room served as a testament to the less than noble plans he had for her.

It was a strange feeling indeed, so Draco shoved and kicked it into the back of his mind, away from his conscious thoughts.

* * *

When Hermione awoke later that afternoon, Draco was armed with porridge and a tisane to numb the pain; the Healer had deemed her well-enough to receive some magical aid in his midday check-in. Draco hovered the tray above her lap as he settled himself next to her.

"Hey, my sweet," he whispered.

He was rewarded with a wan smile. "Fancy some porridge? Zibby ground some vegetables especially for you to try to get your strength up, but she flavored it with cinnamon."

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically, eliciting a small quirk of her lips, and continued, "I know, I thought it sounded foul too, but I tasted it, and really, it's quite good."

The last bit was more of a request than a statement, made more so by the spoonful of said porridge that he now proffered to her. Hermione attempted to lift her arm to grab the spoon, screeched as the movement sent fiery pain through her body, and then met Draco's eyes helplessly, jutting her lower lip out slightly like a petulant child. He ladled the porridge into her mouth, promising while he did that she could have her revenge once she was better by babying him back. She had looked rather too pleased at that concession, but she ate most of her porridge and she drank the tisane before drifting back to sleep.

* * *

With magical remedies aiding her convalescence, Hermione made markedly better progress. She spent several hours awake each subsequent day, during which Draco read to her, fed her, and sometimes held her. She asked remarkably, almost suspiciously, few questions, and Draco wondered if she were afraid the answers would shatter her fragile recovery. She asked his name-Draco Malfoy. How he knew her-school. How well he knew her-fiancee. Her expression had vacillated between panicked and morose at the last answer, and told him she didn't remember. He supposed not remembering someone you loved enough to marry would make you sad, and felt a pang of guilt. Fortunately, she had asked him to read again instead of continuing her queries.

It was a calm idyll, drudgery of nursing aside, and part of Draco was loathe to see it end. His intentions weren't necessarily wholly pure, but at the moment, in caring for her, he wasn't actively lying and manipulating her, his words and actions attempting to mould her into a weapon. He was almost dreading when that started.

On day thirteen, Hermione demanded a bath. Her voice was still raspy with disuse, but somehow had lost none of its bossiness for all it lacked volume.

"I'm grimy, sweaty, and disgusting. A bath sounds cozy and cleansing," she argued.

Draco feigned offense, "I am glad you think so little of my slaving to sponge you clean."

He harrumphed dramatically. In truth, he was glad she'd be able to wash. He'd only sponged off the visible bits, like her face and hands, not willing to jostle her or to touch her more intimately in those early days, and Scourgifies and Tergeos only did so much once magic could be safely used on her. In short, her odor was not the best, despite his judicious use of a nose-plugging charm.

Then, her words registered: Bath. Naked Hermione. Fiancee Draco probably would be expected to have seen her naked; fiancee Draco also would respect that Hermione didn't remember him, and would not likely be comfortable with him there. Real Draco-he sneered at himself internally for referencing himself as such-was both disgustingly intrigued and utterly repulsed by the possibility. What should he do? His discomfort was short lived, as a blushing Hermione, already at work leveraging herself out of the bed asked if Zibby or one of the other house elves might help her.

"It's not that I don't trust you," she whispered, looking both mortified and worried she might crush him, "it's, ah, I just don't remember you and uh, if we?"

Her sentence ended in a garbled "ugh," her face even redder, if that was possible. Draco put his arm around her to help her up, calling for Zibby, who appeared with a crack.

"Of course, love. I wouldn't want strange men to see me naked either." He gave lie to his relief, assuming a worried fiancee would have some mixed feelings about the situation, by sketching a forced smile. Hermione had laughed at his joke though, which softened his smile into something more genuine almost immediately.

Draco listened to the soft splashing noises, obsequious prattle from Zibby, and polite answers from Hermione with a rapidly sinking heart. What had he gotten himself into?


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Thanks again for following along thus far and for all the comments!

* * *

A clean Hermione, Draco reflected as he sat at her bedside, was a significantly more troublesome Hermione. She had come out of the bath in a giant fuzzy robe with a determined look on her face. He'd helped her settle into the bed, which had freshly changed linens; he'd been rather pleased with himself for being so considerate. No sooner had she snuggled into bed again, than she had informed him she wanted to know more about what had happened to her and help in filling in the gaps in her memory, which she suspected were large. She'd mused that it was hard to pin down what was missing though, since, by definition it wasn't there. She had then asked for a quill and parchment, so she could take notes while he answered. Draco couldn't decide whether he was comforted or disgusted by her predictable swotiness.

Hermione set her shoulders back and took a steeling breath.

"What year is it?"

"April of 1998."

Hermione's face drained immediately.

"What? So we're in our seventh year at Hogwarts already?"

Draco imagined he could see the wheels spinning behind her screwed up eyes.

"I don't remember seventh year at all. Not much of sixth, but at least a little…" Her voice trailed and he imagined her consciousness flitting through the shelves of her mental library, frantically looking for evidence of the past year. After a moment, she shook her head slightly, wrote a few words on her parchment, and graciously filled Draco in on her suspicions.

"I think whatever damage was done to my memory accelerated with my more recent memories. I've been trying to catalogue the bits and pieces I do remember chronologically, but not having a whole year took me a bit by surprise… it's just so much of my life."

She twirled the quill in the air to illustrate the rest, then sighed.

"Do we know what curse hit me?"

Draco's mind stuttered into action; his preparations over the last week were being put to the test in earnest.

"No, we don't know for certain. We do know that your memory was affected and that you've been in a great deal of pain, have suffered from fevers and spasms. The Cruciatus is a contender, but it isn't the only one."

He hoped his voice sounded tender and concerned and not at all as if he were reciting the answers he had manufactured and memorized.

"Who cursed me?"

"Again, we don't know. We fear it was a military fringe group called the Order. Do you remember anything about them?" Draco asked, even though he knew answer. She wouldn't be sitting here, scratching out notes if she did.

"No."

"Well, they are a political group, call themselves reformers and protectors, but they're almost anarchic in their disregard for rules and government structure. They are part of the larger conflict in the wizarding world right now. We believe-" Draco forced his voice to crack, as if his next utterance caused him great grief. "-they were the ones who attacked you. I can't forgive myself for letting you out of my sight with those madmen around."

He had hoped to gauge Hermione's reaction to his emotional outburst, but her head was buried in her parchment, the skritch of the quill rushing to fill the silence. Well, she hadn't snorted in disbelief. Hermione's head tipped back upwards for her next question, her face filled with the studious intensity Draco recognized from Hogwarts.

"Where am I?"

"Malfoy Manor. In a guest room, to be exact."

"Where are my parents? Are they safe from this Order?"

Draco leaned back slightly, his arms crossing.

"I don't know where your parents are. Last year, they, uh, disappeared. We've had people searching diligently for them, with no luck."

Seeing Hermione's devastated reaction, he quickly amended, "But we've also found no evidence that any harm came to them."

Draco thanked his lucky stars (Thuban, Etamin, Rabastan, and Athebyne… all in the constellation Draco, obviously) he'd asked around about her parents; his people had searched for them fruitlessly. Just with less benevolent intentions for the search that what he hoped Hermione would infer.

Hermione nodded, causing the tears that now streaked down her cheeks to wobble and change course. She half-heartedly asked a few more questions about the state of the wizarding world, but the news about her parents seemed to have deflated her. Despite himself, Draco found himself wanting comfort her; concern for the health of one's parents in this awful war was something near to his own heart.

"Do you want to pause with the questions for a bit and come back to it later?" He suggested gently. "You're only just recovering, and I'm sure this is quite tiring."

He gently tugged the writing tools from her and set them aside. Taking her lack of resistance as assent, he helped tuck her in and promised more answers and even some spellbooks when she awoke. Her fluttering eyelids shuttered only moments later.

* * *

The dull metallic clinks of forks and knives on fine china were the only sounds in the formal dining room. Dinners used to be a little more lively, when the oppressive stress of the Dark Lord's presence and expectations hadn't been weighing on the small family. Then again, at least his Aunt and their Lord weren't present. Small favors. Internally, Draco counted down the time until his father asked how his plan was going, or, perhaps if he were being particularly snippy, what on earth had he been thinking in proposing it at all? Draco cued up multiple answers, most of which he'd never dare voice to his father, ranging from "Excellent, I've always wanted to fall in love with a Mudblood" to "Better than my plan to murder the Headmaster" or "I was thinking I'd spare myself the agony of watching a classmate be murdered and perhaps save our family like you couldn't." Hermione was upstairs resting, exhausted after her questioning and the answers Draco had revealed. Draco was exhausted too, yet here he was at this awkward, interminable dinner.

He had started moodily pushing peas around his plate, wondering if dessert would ever arrive, when his father cleared his throat.

"Draco," Lucius began; his son had already snapped to attention, his mouth twisted in a bitter expression.

If it had been anyone but his father, Draco would have said the expression that crossed the older man's face was guilt, but it _was _his father, so Draco categorized it as "face spasm." Dark curses do odd things to a body.

Lucius continued, "I wanted to tell you, I'm proud of you. Finally showing initiative in this endeavor. I know I pushed you hard on this path, but I really appreciate how you have stepped up"

The words Draco has so longed to hear-_I'm proud of you-_ seemed as if they were being pulled out of him like a magic toffee that stretched farther than a young boy could pull it. Lucius sighed. Draco's mother wore her blandest expression, revealing nothing about her feelings. Given that she loved to shower Draco with praise, her reticence here seemed odd. As if she didn't approve of Lucius' praise? Draco swallowed over the lump in his throat. Praise from his father, a balm his spirit had long sought, but which arrived after the wounds had long since scarred.

Draco sketched a brittle, fake smile.

"Of course, Father. I am honored to have met your high standards and have no intention of disappointing you or our Lord. Since you are so supportive, I know you'll forgive my rudeness in skipping dessert to attend said project."

He scraped his chair backwards, the lump in his throat larger than it had been before. "Mother," he acknowledged as he sped from the room. His eyes were wet by the time he reached Hermione's door.

* * *

Hermione was still sleeping when a dry, but slightly puffy, eyed Draco quietly cracked open the door. She looked incredibly young and peaceful; the difference between her now, and while she was recovering was marked. Her skin had a more normal color, and she no longer whimpered or twitched in pain. Draco watched her for a few more moments, before striding over and impulsively brushing his lips against her forehead. She stirred slightly, her lips parting to whisper something inaudible. Draco stepped back, exited the room, and proceeded to lock and ward the room; he couldn't trust any of the Death Eaters who sometimes roamed the halls, even his father, despite his current support for Draco's project.

Back in his own room, Draco found himself transfixed by the ceiling. The chaste kiss to Hermione's forehead echoed in his mind. At the time, it had seemed the natural thing to do; he supposed he had been playing this role too long already. Her skin had been warm, but not fevered (finally), and surprisingly soft. Her springy, frizzy hair had tickled his nose. In short, it had been incredibly banal, but very… real. Unlike so much of his time trying to stay afloat in this place. He often felt as if he were half dreaming. And yet, here was a real witch whom he was attempting to mold and manipulate. And if he failed… visions of the Dark Lord's displeasure-made manifest through obscure curses, Dark objects, and the occasional hellacious pet-danced across his vision. Sleep did not come easily that night.

* * *

"I made a timeline," Hermione informed Draco when he came in the next morning to join her for breakfast.

Curiosity as to what project the amnestic Hermione had conjured in the early morning warred with his interest in the spread of eggs, sausages, and fried potatoes the elves had lovingly prepared. He perched on the edge of the bed, eyebrow raised in invitation to continue as he piled his plate high with steaming meats. He was starving after having denied himself dessert last night.

Hermione scrutinized his actions; Draco suddenly wondered if he was doing something strange or if he had pustules on his face, perhaps, given her unflagging attention.

"I think I remember your eating," Hermione hazarded. "I have vague... impressions of watching someone shove food onto their plate with abandon, of feeling… a warmth, at seeing that. Seeing this-" She waved her fork towards his plate. "-I am suspicious it was you."

She smirked at him. Malfoy tried not to let the nauseated feeling that had flooded him show on his face. Weasley. She's mistaken a shadow of memory of Weasley for him. Gluttonous Weasley no less, ugh. If Draco had seen him piling his plate all the way from the Slytherin table, of course it was a pervasive enough memory to have slipped past the purge. His lips started to curl in a grimace, but Draco stopped himself and sighed. He couldn't risk the whole plan by betraying his disgust, especially since Hermione had no idea it hadn't been him.

"I'm glad my over-eating is what you remember. Fondly, apparently."

Hermione snickered, as Draco rolled his eyes. He was glad to see that she had piled her own plate full of the hearty breakfast. With the house elves nourishing her, she'd lose that skeletal, near-death look soon.

"Of course most of memories are a bit hazy with respect to exact timing, but I tried to assign them as best I could," Hermione continued, pulling him away from nourishment once again.

She offered him the parchment. Tiny, neat letters that would have reminded Draco of typed words had he encountered them were interspersed with gaps labelled with question marks.

"I was hoping you could help me fill in some of the gaps-I still have no idea when we got together, for example, and we could spend some time with just re-getting to know each other, and catching me up on spellwork so I can figure out what did this, how to reverse it, and be ready for my NEWTs."

She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself, and couldn't quite meet his eyes. "I really don't remember you at all."

Her pace picked up, "Maybe the eating thing, and I remember your taking care of me these last few days, but that's it. I feel terrible! Honestly, I don't remember practically anyone, so it's not as if I selectively forgot you. I mean, I remember my parents of course, but I don't seem to have any memories of friends at school. I assume I had friends..."

Hermione cut herself off, realizing she had started babbling. Their eyes locked for a second, before Hermione's face crumpled.

"If you aren't busy. Gods, I didn't even ask if you're busy. How much time have you taken off to care for me? Are you still in school? Am I?" Her voice had risen steadily, the distressed look on her face growing more pronounced.

As tempting as it was to make her squirm-and oh, was it tempting!- the amount of time that might be required to regain her trust just to see "chagrin" on her face wasn't worth it. Unfortunately.

So, Responsible Draco responded soothingly, "That sounds great. There is no place more important for me to be other than at your side."

At least the second statement was true; the Dark Lord has agreed this was his project, therefore this _was _the most important thing in his worthless life right now.

"As for school, we both _should _be in school, but given this attack, I don't think we should go back for the remainder of the year."

Hermione looked ready to argue.

"We, of course, can discuss whether that is a good plan once you are well," Draco amended smoothly.

He stared pointedly at her half-eaten plate, wondering how horrified she'd be if she knew that she'd been barred from entering school at this year at a Muggleborn student. Or outraged, or panicked. He pegged her more as a panicked type, honestly. She shoved several potatoes in her mouth in an obvious attempt to show her dedication to returning to school.

They ate in companionable silence for the next several minutes. Her plate empty, Hermione leaned back into the pillows, fanning her hair out like a halo. Draco Accio-ed the plush chair at the desk and settled himself in it, next to the bedside. "What are we starting with?"

* * *

And so, fifteen minutes later, the two teenagers were ensconced in cozy upholstered chairs by the fireplace in Draco's room; Hermione had insisted she needed a change of scenery, while Draco was loathe to expose her to more of the manor.

Hermione had suggested they play a variant of a Muggle game she had played growing up, as part of her plan to re-acquaint herself with her fiancée. Draco had been surprised she wanted to get to know him first, rather than diving into research on how to reverse her condition right away. Books always seemed to be her first love, but maybe that was somehow a reaction to memories that were long gone? Draco was unsure about her motivations and less sure about this proposed game.

The game was called Truth or Dare, although Draco had to answer the question he asked of Hermione if she couldn't remember the answer herself. Well, also modified such that the "dare" portion could be completed by her in her recovering state. Draco's insistence that it wasn't a game, given the lack of scoring system and inability for one of them to win, fell on selectively-hearing ears.

"I'll start," Hermione volunteered. "Truth or Dare?"

"Truth."

"What was your favorite toy as a child?"

"Broomstick."

Hermione nodded expectantly before Draco realized he had to reciprocate.

"Truth or Dare."

"Dare."

"I've never played this game. You should pick truth until you've shown me how this works."

"It's not that difficult, you just pick a task for me to do, usually something relatively embarrassing or silly."

"You're incapacitated. This is silly." Draco squirmed in his chair. Malfoys didn't play silly games. Malfoys orchestrated and pontificated and ruled. Not truth-or-dared. He wasn't sure he really wanted to get to know Hermione any better either, not that he could tell her that.

"Of course it's silly! We're getting to know each other, again for me, which is awkward. This is meant to lighten the mood!"

"Fine. I dare you to call Zibby and ask for biscuits and hot cocoa."

Hermione shot him a quizzical look, but complied. After Zibby appeared with the requested snacks, Hermione informed him that that wasn't a very good dare. Draco glared moodily at his

biscuit.

"Fine," he challenged, "I pick dare then."

Her gleeful smile unnerved him a bit. "I dare you to sing a verse from your favorite song."

"What if my favorite song doesn't have any words?"

"Then hum it."

"What if I don't have a favorite song?"

"Then I'll judge you. Harshly."

Draco was sorely tempted to sing "Weasley is Our King," but didn't want to explain any of the lyrics so he denied himself. Instead he hummed a haunting folk-song his mother always had the orchestra play at Christmas; it always made his hairs stand on end and made him feel strangely afloat and adrift.

He huffed an awkward laugh when he finished, "It sounds better not-hummed, I swear."

Hermione smiled broadly at him, before choosing "Truth."

They continued the casual game, choosing mostly truths that covered the harmless basics-favorite foods, strangest habit, pet peeves-interspersed with hypothetical questions-books brought to a desert island with anti-Apparition wards, perfect date, historical figure you'd like to meet.

Draco had avoided questions she would be unlikely to be able to answer. It seemed unsporting, although he also admitted he was still nervous about the process of filling in memories and was trying to delay that process a bit. He had settled into a comfortable routine with the game and was learning mostly that Hermione had strong opinions on practically everything and was utterly incapable of answering a hypothetical question without asking clarifying questions first. _Am I meeting with historical figure in their time period or ours? How long a conversation are we having? Can I have them teach me something instead of just talking?_

He'd picked "dare," expecting another song, or to pull out another childhood toy to show her, when her words- "kiss me"-registered. She'd turned scarlet, and Draco felt his own face flushing in response. Had she picked this whole game to lead up to that? Looking at her bashful and vaguely guilty looking expression, he suspected she had.

He levered himself out of the chair and knelt in front of her. His heart hammered. She wanted to kiss him, that much was obvious, yet despite that, he felt a twist of shame in his gut; he wasn't sure if it was because knew her willingness arose solely from her missing memory and his lie about being her fiancée or if it was an artifact of eighteen odd years of indoctrination about Mudblood inferiority and filthiness. Or some combination of both, in all likelihood. His eyes met her wide ones; she looked both hopeful and mildly petrified.

_A fiancee would kiss his intended. _Draco steeled himself with that thought, leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: AHH! So sorry guys! I accidentally messed up my chapter ordering! This was meant to be chapter 5.

THIS is chapter 5 (after the "truth or dare"); I will re-post the other chapter as Chapter 6. I am so sorry!

* * *

Draco hadn't hurled his guts up like he had thought he might. The kiss had been fine. It had lasted only a second, which, he supposed, wasn't really enough time for anything better-or worse-than "fine." Hermione's skin remained in a deep blush when they pulled apart, although she looked frustrated. Draco had been planning on feigning a bashful look and perhaps waxing poetic about much he missed kissing her, but didn't want to pressure her, blah blah, but given her expression, he settled for quirking an eyebrow up in silent inquiry. She huffed a sigh.

"I had hoped kissing might jog a memory. Some twisted mix of fairy-tale beliefs and the idea that memories are triggered by different sensory inputs," she admitted.

Draco coughed a dry laugh; of course, swotty Hermione had a _useful _reason for wanting to kiss him.

"And here I was, thinking you just found me terribly attractive," he replied in-mostly-mock affront.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn't hide the grin that edged her lips, "That too."

A comfortable silence settled over them as Hermione availed herself of the opportunity to sip her cocoa. Draco watched her, wondering whether she was always like this with her friends-fiery, opinionated, bold, a little flirtatious, a little vulnerable-or if it was only because the parts of her personality that had been molded by those friends and those experiences was altered. The possibility of the first option seemed strange, that he was experiencing Potter and Weasley's Hermione, while she was lost to them. The second possibility made the hairs on his arms stand at attention, as it suggested that his actions over the next few weeks would be able to mold her perhaps more than he'd even been expecting. Draco Malfoy, sculptor of man. Woman. Witch. Whatever.

A slippered foot broke his reverie. "Your turn," its owner informed him. He was utterly confused for a moment, before he remembered their ridiculous game. Hermione giggled at his befuddled expression before Draco informed her archly that the game was over because he had won. Kissing the pretty girl always indicated a win.

* * *

That afternoon, Draco was summoned downstairs. The Dark Lord had returned to Malfoy Manor and planned to grace those present with both his presence and news in return for updates and grovelling. Draco left Hermione poring over spellbooks. She seemed to devour around twenty pages before she'd gasp over some likely trivial point that she felt might be important for recovering her memories and scratch furious notes in various colored inks, as if the act of writing would embed the fact directly into her brain. Overall, it seemed her memories of spells-of her doing her homework, which involved no people, he guessed-were well preserved. He was considering slipping her a book of Dark spells tomorrow; he'd tell her they'd covered them seventh year. Part of him relished the idea of her inevitable panic at not recognizing any spell and her subsequent sullying of herself-he was sure the old Hermione would see it that way, at least-with Dark Arts, while another, cowardly, part worried that her innate Gryffindor-y goodness would be repulsed immediately and he'd lose all credibility with her.

Draco dragged his feet as he obeyed the summons. He'd returned her wand despite nearly breaking out in a whole-body sweat as he offered it to her. She'd promised to try no potentially dangerous magic without him present, and even agreed to use what she imagined _his _definition of dangerous magic would be, not her own. The wild, panicked voice that had been his constant companion the previous year warned that she might remember everything, be faking her friendliness so she could get her wand and escape, or hex Draco. But, he could think of no reason beyond his fears to refuse her the wand after he'd stupidly, carelessly revealed he had it. Just as he lacked a sane reason for disallowing her to leave her own chambers that didn't reveal his home was co-opted by potentially murderous mad-men. He supposed she'd be nominally safer with her wand than without it, small comfort that that was. Maybe if she went out on a murderous rampage she'd killed Bellatrix or the Dark Lord first. Nominally more comforting.

Draco's reluctant footsteps finally brought him to the Madman-in-Chief, ensconced on his throne and lounging with the boneless ease only achieved by immortals utterly sure of their invincibility. The attendant group was small, selective. Draco, Aunt Bella, Rodolphus, Rabastan, the Carrows, Rookwood, Dolohov, and Yaxley. Draco's jaw hardened at his parents' absence; the blame for Potter and Weasley's escape had fallen on them, apparently. He only hoped that being snubbed via meeting invitations was the extent of their punishment. Silence reigned and Draco struggled to keep from fidgeting.

The Dark Lord heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"My faithful," he greeted them. "I grow bored of waiting. I had hoped that our errant teenaged criminals might try to mount a rescue attempt of Draco's _guest, _but they disappoint me. I want to know what they are up to, and then I want them dead."

The man, if he was a man anymore, now sat straight in his throne, a monarch giving edicts. His mouth twisted into a half-smirk.

"Questions?"

Draco's mind spun. As Hermione's keeper, his responsibility for this task was obvious. Ideally, he would think of a plan that he was uniquely suited to accomplish that posed little risk to himself. He had no real interest in divining his least-favorite classmates' plans, but riling them up enough to mount a rescue for Hermione… that, that he could do.

Draco stepped forward, bowing low.

"My Lord."

He waited to be acknowledged; a lazy hand movement bade him continue. Draco swallowed his disgust at being ordered about like some gormless servant, and instead molded his face into his typical cold mask, the one his father wore to business dealings.

"Knowing Potter and Weasley, I imagine it is their elders who are preventing them from mounting a rescue attempt. Perhaps if we can... rile them sufficiently, they will not be able to resist such a reckless effort." Draco indulged in a lazy smile. "Enraging those two happens to be my specialty, as it were. If it pleases you, Hermione and I will take a few short, very public ventures out in wizarding London, perhaps even in view of the press…"

He was rewarded by the Dark Lord's low, hollow laugh.

"Excellent, Young Malfoy. What joy the vindictive, petty slings and barbs your childish rivalry bring to me."

He sighed and swung his bloody gaze to the others in the room.

"If Young Malfoy's plan succeeds, we can ask the would-be-rescuers what they have been up to ourselves. Barring that, Yaxley, Rabastan, I want you to head up search parties and surveillance for them. Bella, secure the item we spoke about. Carrows, see if you can sow some rumors at Hogwarts about the Mudblood's presence with the Malfoys. I'm sure there are some precious, loyal wizards who'll jump at the chance to share that information with their precious Order. Rookwood, Dolohov, continue with your previous work." His words were met with a series of deep bows.

* * *

Draco wandered leisurely back to his room. He felt light and free, escaping a meeting with the Dark Lord with no more arduous task than taking a girl shopping. In a way that was dramatic and likely to irritate Potter and Weasley. Finally, a task that played to his strengths! He smirked, and straightened his spine, feeling more himself than he had in weeks, months maybe.

He swept into Hermione's room and announced that they would head to Diagon Alley tomorrow if Hermione continued her upward trajectory. His grand pronouncement was met with what sounded suspiciously like "no thanks," if the phrase had been uttered around a quill. The momentary calm he had been experiencing evaporated. His face felt wooden as he maintained a neutral expression, while he internally tried to squelch the fiery frustration her words elicited. A tiny voice berated him for not predicting that the school-obsessed girl would be uninterested in something so banal as shopping.

"Could I convince you to come if I promise ice-cream? Or a stop at Flourish and Blotts? Or if I beg that I desperately want your company and to get out of this house?" Draco struggled to keep his voice calm, as if his fate didn't hang on her answer. He was merely a boy, asking a girl on excursion, that's all.

Hermione's mouth tugged upwards at his teasing yet petulant tone. She looked up to the ceiling as if praying for strength, but her widening smile tempered the action. Draco pouted dramatically.

"Fine," she conceded. "I suppose I need clothes here anyways, since all mine are at school?"

Draco nodded. Her spellbook drew her gaze downwards, leaving Draco standing awkwardly in the doorway. Hermione was, he mused, quite independent and quite a bit less requiring of his attention than he had suspected a fiancee might be. He strode across the room and grabbed his own book, a tome on dark hexes with an illusioned cover, and settled in his chair. As he lost himself in the book, the occasional sound of Hermione's quill and a flicked page turn providing a soothing soundtrack to his studies, he idly considered that he didn't mind having a companion at the Manor before the section on blood magic engrossed him again.

* * *

Despite her reservations about the trip, Hermione was an enthusiastic shopper. She made a nominal attempt to mask her obvious, childlike glee at seemingly every store. Piecing together his recollections of passing her in Diagon Alley and what he'd learned of her over the last several days, he hazarded she was re-experiencing some of her wonder at being reintroduced to the magical world.

They had stopped at the ice-cream shop formerly belonging to Florean Fortescue (which had been gifted by the Dark Lord to a sympathizer whose lack of potential for further advancement within the ranks was evidenced by his creatively naming it "Ice Cream Shop.") Despite the sordid history of the former owner and the idiocy of the current, it remained a largely cheery place with good ice-cream. Hermione ordered strawberry and peanut butter, while Draco stuck to chocolate. Classic, like himself. They settled at an outdoor table, Draco facing the street so he could survey passers-by for danger, or opportunities to flaunt his possession of Hermione.

His study was interrupted by Hermione's cautious voice. "So, how did we meet? Or, rather, I guess, how did we, err, get together?"

"Would you believe me if I told you that you chased after me for years, irresistibly drawn to my aristocratic yet cherubic features?"

Hermione snorted. "No."

"How about that I rescued you from a dangerous monster roaming the school?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, because that's more believable." She gestured with her spoon for him to try again.

"We worked on a class project together and you fell for my sharp intellect and scathing wit."

"Plausible at least. How come I am chasing after you in all these scenarios?"

"Because you did chase after me."

"Now I'm suspicious you chased after me."

Draco sputtered. Hermione looked triumphant. In truth, all Draco's draft stories-not to mention the one he'd settled on-involved her chasing him. The alternative… it hadn't occurred to him. It was just prepostrous that _he_ a Pureblood would chase _her _a Mudblood. Then again, this Hermione seemed to have no idea those distinctions existed. He was suspicious Old Hermione wouldn't have cared.

"Truth now," she demanded, spooning another bit of ice-cream into her mouth.

Draco quickly re-arranged some bits of planned fiction with some bits of truth in his mind as he spun her a story.

"Fine. Ruin all my fun. Honestly, I was a bit of a prat when I was younger. I teased you, about your bushy hair and incessant need to answer every question in class. Third year, you actually slapped me over a nasty comment I made about a teacher you liked. I guess you felt rather bad later, since you came to check up on me. No, you didn't slap me hard enough to really hurt me, don't worry," he amended, looking at her horrified face.

"At that point, I guess you could say we became almost friends, or at least we were friendly towards each other. Then, fourth year, you went to the Yule ball with another guy, and I was jealous in a… not-friendly way. So, I did the whole awful sappy romantic thing and started leaving notes for you in your books. You ignored me for a good while, until I'd almost given up and was flirting a bit with a girl in my house, at which point you accosted me in a hallway and expressed your anger over my, I quote `duplicitous behavior,' and agreed to go on a date with me."

"Do you still have the notes you wrote me?"

"No, but I imagine you do at school," Draco lied blithely. He'd concoct a story about something tragic happening to her books if she ever got close to Hogwarts. Maybe pay Pansy to burn a fake set in a jealous rage in front of her...

He felt his thought screech to a halt as he spotted a Witch Weekly photographer moving towards them. Seizing the opportunity, he leaned across the table to kiss her. He saw the camera clicking wildly in his peripheral vision. Perfect.

"Sorry, love," he whispered, as he pulled away an inch. "You had a bit of ice-cream on your lip." He smirked wider, as Hermione blushed furiously.

* * *

Hermione paused before Berbiguier's Baubles, a tiny, trendy jewelry shop near Gringott's, and faced Draco, who was forced to balance on his toes to avoid crashing into her. "Do I have an engagement ring? Or is that just a Muggle custom?" She seemed genuinely curious, while Draco fought to quell his rising panic. How had he missed that? Of course his fiancee would have a ring. As _his _fiancee, Hermione would have a Malfoy or Black family heirloom encrusted with enough precious gems to make most even wealthy wizards drool. _Shite_!

Draco's mind ratcheted into overdrive. He was doing way more off-the-cuff story development and explanation than he planned for. Meticulously, for days, planned he would like to note. _Maybe her attackers stole the ring?_ Unlikely, unless it was some important artifact… He started speaking, not entirely sure until the words left his mouth what he was going to say.

"Of course wizards have rings! Honestly, Muggles got the idea from us I think. I have, erm, I mean, you, have an engagement ring. I gave you one, that is. I removed it while you were… sick, at the Healer's recommendations. Jewelry can interfere with some healing spells and even blood circulation, apparently."

Draco cut himself off before he started sounding suspicious. He thought he'd read that about some jewelry and spells long ago, but now that's he'd said it outloud, he couldn't be sure.

Then, his mind finally spun into action.

"And, well, I was rather hoping you wouldn't notice, so that I could be romantic and re-propose with it. Since you don't remember the first time, and I rather thought I had botched it anyways… Hindsight and all that."

Draco glanced at the ground, feigning bashfulness. Perfect. Hermione loved underdogs, and he'd just cast himself as such. He hoped his face looked sufficiently contrite and hopeful when smugness at his own brilliance was all he really felt. He would be an excellent real fiancee someday, he decided. He was excellent at this romantic drivel.

"Oh, that makes sense. Muggles have to take off jewelry for lots of healing procedures as well. We have some machines that make images of the body and you have to remove all metal because they use magnets. I suppose it probably isn't very hygenic either."

Draco started to tune her explanations out. She seemed to have bought his explanation and if her grabbing his hand to drag him towards Flourish and Blotts was any indication, his assessment of his charming desire to re-propose was well-received. Her fingers felt foreign and awkward on his, but he clutched at them anyways-an ostentatious display of affection with her was the goal of the day.

Draco quickly glanced around, hoping another gossip photographer might be around, when he spotted something even better-the pale, outraged face, framed by mop of black hair, of one Wizarding World Savior.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: I'm an idiot. This was posted as chapter 5, but is really chapter 6. (If you already read this one, read the previous... again, so sorry!) I will try to update the next chapter early as an apology.

Thanks for all the reads and feedback!

Xonjax: Keeping reading to see! I can promise there will be a couple of twists with respect to loyalty in this fic.

Incwolf199: Glad you're enjoying the story!

* * *

Potter's head must have slipped from an invisibility cloak, as all Draco saw was his floating, disembodied head. Draco's mind entered battle mode, during which he made a split-second decision to flee before Potter pulled out his wand. He'd flee with flair at least. Giving his school nemesis a broad smile and wink, he quickly Apparated Hermione and himself back to the Manor.

The whole exchange had lasted only three seconds, if that, with no imagined interminable pause as the foes lock eyes as time stopped. It had been impossibly brief, and yet his heart thundered in his chest, as if it hoped to break free. Hermione looked a little green and more than a little peeved at the unexpected Side-Along she had just been subjected to.

"I saw someone I thought was in the Order," he rushed to explain.

Hermione's eyes widened, and Draco felt he could practically see her mind replaying those in the streets, trying to identify who had been the danger.

"I don't think you saw them, unless you saw a head floating above what I can only assume was an invisibility cloak," he responded to her unasked question.

Hermione looked rather more put-out than relieved that Draco had rescued her before she had so much as spotted the danger. Well, it wasn't as if Draco wanted her to fling herself at him in gratitude anyways. A thank you would have been nice though.

* * *

Several hours later, Draco scrounged around the Manor's attic, motivated by the panic that had gripped him when he realized Hermione didn't have an engagement ring. He had dutifully informed some underling that he'd successfully flaunted Hermione in Diagon Alley, leaving out the teensy detail of having seen Potty; he didn't want to be blamed for not capturing the mop-headed git if he could help it.

Draco was dusty and sore from rooting around old boxes and drawers, which made him quite peeved. He constructed detailed plans to punish the house elves for their failure to clean this room. Or, rather, he planned to make an announcement to them that he was disappointed in their behavior and their self-flagellation would do the punishment. Delegation was a powerful tool. He grumbled thinking back to their grovelling insistence that they couldn't be spared to search for a ring themselves-too busy with "guests."

How hard could it be to find a gaudy ring? Well, a gaudy ring _without _giant snakes on it; his family appeared rather fond of those, but he didn't think Hermione would appreciate it. Or even believe she'd accepted his suit if he'd presented it. Draco opened a small chest, ran a quick diagnostic spell to make sure nothing in it would bite-or worse; a faint bruise on his hand was a testament to the dangers lurking in Malfoy jewelry boxes. He was fairly confident that his father kept the really nasty things elsewhere, where they could be easily accessed for usage in service of the Dark Lord, but he remained cautious. Draco found no rings, but he did find a jaunty emerald pin that he tossed into his pile of things-I-might-want, which also included a few books, a dragon statuette, and a set of old, interestingly shaped potions bottles.

Several dusty minutes later, he found another jewelry box within one of the trunks. After donating a drop of blood-although donating was being generous, seeing as the box had bitten him, despite the diagnostic spell-to prove to the box that he was a Malfoy and therefore worthy of opening it, he found a veritable trove of shiny baubles. He picked up the rings and casually inspected them, waiting for one that seemed… well, engagement-y. He had no idea what sort of jewelry his supposed fiancee liked, since he'd never seen her wear any.

A flash of red caught his eye. He held up a small, silver band molded to look like twining rose stems, topped with rubies that formed rose petals. Around the ruby-rose, tiny emeralds in the shape of leaves fluttered in an imagined wind. Red for Gryffindor, green for Slytherin, with a hint of magic that made it move, as if ruffled by an invisible wind-Hermione would love it. Draco was both disgusted at himself and pleased with his perceptiveness that he had already formed such strong opinions about Hermione's preferences. He cast a quick self-sizing charm on it so that it would fit her when he presented it to her and mentally congratulated himself on a job well done.

Gathering up his other finds, he trudged back down from the attic, looking forward to a cleansing shower.

* * *

Draco returned to Hermione's room, still feeling rather smug. She was seated at the desk, dressed in one of the new robes he had purchased for her. Well purchased for her with the promise that she would pay him back; she had, however, failed to receive his promise to accept said payment, not that he expected her to survive long enough to contest any of that. Draco's thoughts continued to wander along that tangent. He hoped-for his own hide in the near future-that his public outing with Hermione today would result in Potter's capture as he came to rescue Hermione. He also hoped-for his own hide in the distant future, and maybe even Hermione's hide-that Potter survived and disposed of Voldemort. His hopes for his short and long-term survival often seemed at odds with each other.

He had just settled himself at the second desk he'd Transfigured out of the nightstand, and was trying to decide if he was relieved or a bit put-out that Hermione hadn't inquired where he'd gone. On one hand, it did save him effort in making up a lie. On the other, her lack of interest in his whereabouts indicated a lack of interest in him, which stung a bit. A Mudblood, uninterested in her very attractive, Pureblood fiancee was just preposterous. Draco's mental tirade was nipped in the bud when Zibby appeared with the Evening Prophet. Draco had planned to flip towards the society pages to see if he and Hermione appeared when the same dark mop of hair that had greeted him in Diagon Alley caught his attention from the front page. "The Boy Who Looted? Pilfering Potter Attempts Gringotts Heist!" the headline announced. The photo showed Harry whirling around in the lobby, looking panicked before Apparating away. Draco skimmed the text, but it was all fluff-quotes from Ministry officials speculating on his motives, emotional reactions from "witnesses" apparently scarred by their brush with the Wizarding World's most dangerous fugitive... Potter was trying to rob Gringotts! That explained why he'd seen Potter in Diagon Alley at least. Whatever he'd been aiming to steal must have been critically important for him to continue his mission rather than chasing after Hermione…

His thoughts were forcibly tugged back to his Aunt's paranoid questions about Gryffindor's sword as she'd tortured Hermione. She'd immediately gone to her Gringott's vault after she'd packaged pieces of the house elf to send to Potter then. All of Draco's instincts screamed that the events were related, but he couldn't see how. A pathetic part of Draco's mind informed him that Hermione might be able to figure it out, even without her memory. He turned his attention away from that discouraging thought and flipped through the paper to see if he and Hermione had, indeed, been featured.

There. His dramatic instincts had been correct (although his assessment of the photographer's affiliation apparently had not been, he mused) as the picture of his leaning across the table to kiss Hermione looped over and over. It transfixed him. The surprised, but pleased, look on Hermione's face as she saw him moving closer; the way she closed her eyes when his lips mets hers; the smug look on his face as he whispered to her; and the bashful, hopeful sheen to her eyes as he did so. He whispered to himself that he was appreciating his own artistry in creating such a moment despite the nagging voice that insisted… things that didn't bear repeating, much less considering.

Draco dragged his eyes to the accompanying text. "Handsome Heir and Pureblood Prince Draco Malfoy spotted snogging in Diagon Alley! Is Britain's rising most-eligible bachelor off the market? Find out next week with the Prophet's exclusive coverage!" He snorted, and mentally bet himself that he already had a request for an interview sitting with his mail downstairs. His eyes flicked to Hermione. He nearly jumped when he found her brown eyes already staring at his own.

A bushy, brown eyebrow rose elegantly, copying his own gesture so smoothly that he had the odd sensation of looking in a mirror. Well, a mirror that changed his coloring and made him female.

"Interesting news?" she inquired, apparently not having learned the patience necessary to allow the eyebrow lift to ask the question alone.

Draco tossed her the paper, glad-for once-that the excision of anything resembling the truth would save him a great deal of effort in explaining the current political situation in such a way that vilified and sanctified the appropriate actors. She fumbled the catch. A tremulous voice in Draco's mind found her miss and save adorable; he viciously crushed that suggestion with the thought that he would never be attracted to someone so ungraceful. He made a mental note to start dating Quidditch players. Blond, pureblood Quidditch players. Just his type.

Glancing over at Hermione, he sighed. Only a halo of frizzy curls were visible around the newspaper. No hot blond Quidditch players that fawned over him for now. No, he had to pretend to be affianced to _her_.

* * *

As he had predicted, a request for an interview from the Prophet had arrived on thick, high quality parchment (as if a show of wealth could impress a Malfoy) and awaited him with his mail. Draco twirled his quill as he pondered his response. He could write a perfunctory answer for them to publish-easy. But, an interview would mean a longer piece, maybe with pictures-a much better effort. That thought wove together with that image of Potter's flustered face on that evening's paper. Something important enough for Potter to be ignoring Hermione's rescue was clearly afoot, so Draco needed insurance his plan to rile his school nemesis would succeed. He almost felt a bit sorry for Hermione, being prioritized under some other mission by her best friend. Well, and being used as a decoy and molded in a weapon by her "fiancee."

He sneered internally; at least he knew he was a Slytherin through and through. Potter's actions showed how deep Gryffindor loyalty runs. Potter hadn't abandoned his Gringotts plan to chase after Draco and rescue Hermione, so Draco needed to tap into the one wellspring of the Gryffindor, and Harry's personality, he knew could never be exhausted-reckless rage.

Draco nodded to himself as he decided on his course of action. He'd invite the reporter over for a joint interview with his fiancee, spinning a story of their clandestine schoolday romance. They'd get a few photos of the happy couple, the beautiful engagement ring, and hear about the tragic attack Hermione had suffered at the hands of the Order. Photos of Draco with Hermione and the smear against the precious Order? If he was lucky, Hermione would even chime in with her opinion. Draco could almost imagine Harry's apocalyptic rage. He smirked as he set his quill to his own sheet of parchment.

* * *

Two days later, the morning dawned bright, a glimmer of real spring. It felt inappropriate to Draco, who felt that his scheme was rather more suited to the gloom. The light would only illuminate places of his soul that were best left hidden. The pragmatic part of his mind tried to shove his melancholy thoughts back into the recesses of his cluttered, confused brain and instead rejoiced that the day had cooperated with his plans for "re"-proposing to his fake fiancee. The reporter was arriving tomorrow and the previous two days had been lousy with rain, so today was his only chance to make sure Hermione had a photogenic ring on her finger in time for their interview.

He'd spent the rest of the previous evening with Hermione, alternating their studies and research on her condition with cocoa and conversation. He found her surprisingly good company when they were in the thick of a deep discussion of magical theory. He supposed it shouldn't have come as a surprise that her mind could grab, twist, and unfurl complicated concepts, exposing new angles and raising questions given her swotty school record, but he had always assumed her smarts were shallow memorization. In the quiet lulls, he had planned out the next few days. He'd invited the Prophet reporter to come on Friday, today was the proposal; they'd have a nice dinner tonight out in Hogsmeade, very cosy and romantic. The tentative rapport he shared with her made the betrayal he was planning feel worse, not better. The slimy, dark guilt that slithered in his gut was new, or at least no longer obscured by the fear and panic that had overwhelmed him in his quest to kill the headmaster. He didn't like the feeling.

In contrast, the morning sun gilded the tips of the new unfurled roses, and fountains babbled happily. The garden was idyllic, romantic, perfect. He and Hermione had shared breakfast on a small balcony that overlooked the side lawns and had played a game that involved challenging each other to Transfigure increasingly difficult objects that had ended with Draco's teaspoon swimming around his tea as a tiny silver fish. He'd then led her out to the gardens. They were the real jewel of the Malfoy property, containing plants that old, potty Professor Sprout would have probably sold multiple limbs to even touch, much less possess. As his father had told him often, things could be bought, but vessels of magic itself were precious, pure, and to be treasured. It was a nice sentiment, albeit one Draco wasn't sure his father, with his obsession with dark objects, actually held.

He waited until they were in the midst of the roses, their fragrance perfuming the spring air. Draco let Hermione take a few steps ahead of him, and fell down to one knee before she realized he wasn't beside her. Predictably, a second later she whirled to see where he had gone and saw him-an Adonis kneeling in supplication, he imagined. Hermione quirked her eyebrow up at him, mocking him again. Not quite the effect he'd hoped for, but close enough.

"Hermione, I know you don't properly remember me, but my feelings for you now are just as strong as they were then. No matter how long it takes you to recover your memories, I want to be the one by your side. Love, will you marry me? Or at least give me the chance to re-win your heart and convince you to?" He smiled, raising his eyebrow in the way.

Hermione stood, fidgeting for a long moment. Draco felt his stomach drop into the pit of his stomach. Was she going to turn him down?

"We're not planning the wedding imminently, right?" she queried as she held out a shaking hand. "I'd really like to get my memories back, or, build new ones before that. And finish school, for sure…" Not the enthusiasm he would have hoped for, but not a denial; Draco mentally heaved a sigh of relief as his fingers brushed hers, sliding the ring onto her pale finger.

His hand had yet to leave hers when a scream tore from Hermione's lips, and she convulsed in a horrible, strange dance before falling into a dead faint.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks so much for following along so far! It has been so interesting and encouraging to read all your reviews. Also, thanks for your patience with my chapter order mix-up last week. **

Hermione lay on the ground, something like a fairy-tale princess among the roses. That was all Draco's mind processed before panic sloshed in like an immense wave and washed out every thought. He stood, as frozen as his unconscious fiancee. The only movement came from a playful breeze that tousled the roses and whispered through the grass.

A pop broke the stillness, as Zibby appeared. She bobbed a curtsy to Draco and explained that she had heard "Master's lady friend" scream. Her eyes flitted away from her Master towards his prone - friend, she had called her. Draco nodded numbly, before his brain finally blossomed into life again. He dropped to his knees at Hermione's side and ran his wand over her to check her breathing and pulse; she was alive.

"Zibby, get the Healer," he gasped, his throat suddenly dry. Another pop indicated she obeyed. Draco stared at his classmate-his friend?-trying to marshal his now numerous, scattered thoughts. His gaze arrested on the ring; he'd put it on her right before she collapsed. He reached down and tugged at it, but it did not budge, bolstering his suspicions of it. He wanted to hit himself. In retrospect, he had given a Mudblood a Malfoy family heirloom, which was a terrible idea, given his family's historical (and current, if he was honest) prejudices. The fact it hadn't attacked him was irrelevant. Self-recrimination and bile lodged in his throat; in retrospect, it was so obvious. He'd placed that ring on her finger, to unknown effect. At least when Aunt Bella had been torturing Hermione her blood wasn't on his hands; he'd only been a bystander. Now, the weight of her life hung solely on his shoulders. He retched into the nearest rosebush.

* * *

An eternity later, Zibby re-appeared with the greyed Healer. "I placed a likely-cursed ring on her finger; she screamed, convulsed, and collapsed. She is breathing and has a pulse," Draco offered in lieu of a greeting. The Healer nodded and drew his wand, terribly slowly, in Draco's opinion. He almost growled his frustration as the man moved his wand lackadaisically, as if it were being dragged through molasses.

The Healer continued his ministrations, while Draco summoned a chair for himself. His eyes tracked the Healer's motions, but his mind had turned inward. Monumentally screwed was what he was. He could think of no other description of his situation. Defeat, death, torture loomed like insurmountable walls in every direction. The walls of his self-constructed prison leered down at him. He'd chosen to save Hermione, to take on re-molding her as his project. Thus far, he'd succeeded neither in luring Potter to her rescue or in transforming her into a radicalized weapon for darkness. He hadn't even really succeeded in gaining her affection, if her hesitant acceptance of his ring was any indication. Looking at her prone form, he realized he might not have even succeeded in saving her life.

He ran through the possibilities for his own future. If Hermione died, he would have unconditionally failed at his task. His only way of salvaging that would be if Potter did come-either not knowing she was dead, or in revenge for his fallen friend. He might be better off if he claimed that had been his plan, but it would have been better staged if Potter had been there for her demise... Draco ignored the hot, sloshy feeling in his stomach he'd come to recognize as guilt as he considered her staged murder. He moved on to option two. If Hermione awakened quickly, he needed to have an explanation on hand as to what happened. She was, unfortunately, a bright witch, and would notice that her, err symptoms, had started with the ring. The ring that she had supposedly already worn, thus any excuse he might conjure that shifted blame to his family was out the window. Not to mention the fact that he was trying to convince her his family were the so-called good guys, and admitting their hatred of her would counter that… Draco wished he could shake his brain, make it come up with new ideas. His thoughts kept circling back to "monumentally screwed." Could he blame the Order again? It seemed risky to keep milking her "hex" for everything that went wrong. If Draco, melodramatic as he was, thought it was being over-milked, he ruefully considered, it was a distinct possibility. Then again, if she had been wearing the ring, might it have been able to absorb part of the curse? Especially if there had been a protection spell in it? Stick close to the truth-the hex was keyed to Mud, er, Muggle-borns, but was cast by the Order, not by Malfoys-so Draco's tests of it hadn't revealed anything nefarious, since he was a Pureblood... Not his favorite option, but notably the best he'd come up with so far. Maybe he could even sound out his parents a bit, discreetly, to see if they could improve the plausibility of his tale.

He forced his sluggish thoughts to shift to a third possibility-that she remained alive, but cursed. In some ways, this case resembled Case 1: Death, except that there was no way he could pretend it had been planned. If the Healer couldn't remove the curse, there was always a chance his parents or the library could. He'd done a pretty bang-up job researching on his own for the Vanishing Cabinet, so there was a chance he would be able to remove it, given enough time. Failing that? His mind came up blank. Dark Arts practitioners weren't much known for their ability to undo their handiwork, and seeking aid on this would alert the Dark Lord to his inability to accomplish yet another task.

He glanced back at Hermione and the Healer. The man's wand movements were now erratic, as he took long, considering pauses between them. Shite. This did not look good.

* * *

Hours later, Draco paced Hermione's room. She was once again ensconced in her bed, although she slept like the dead this time. The Healer had set a number of spells to prevent any deterioration in her health, and to ensure that she remained nourished and hydrated during her spell induced coma, but had been unable to determine anything about the curse, much less to lift it. The man had left to grab more supplies; Draco had broken protocol by allowing him to leave without an Obliviate, but her state seemed so fragile he didn't want to risk the time he'd lose for the Healer to re-learn her condition… He prayed the man didn't betray him as he glanced again at the clock. 2 minutes. The man was a wizard; how long did it take to gather supplies?!

Draco ran his fingers through his hair again, as he reconciled himself to Case 3: Alive but Cursed. It contained the nasty risks of Case 1, with all of the explanations needed from Case 2 if he managed to wake her up. Once. Once he woke her up. One of his childhood tutors had insisted that positive thinking produced positive outcomes. He'd sneered then, but was willing to grasp at straws now, however, silly those straws might be.

The Healer finally bustled back through the fireplace, spilling ash into the room. Draco watched, detached, as the man cast additional spells and poured a few vials into Hermione's mouth.

Research. That had been Solution A for Case 2. After setting a few monitoring spells to ensure the Healer didn't leave and a few nasty traps for anyone daring to enter the room, he Apparated to the library. He felt more in control of the situation as soon as his feet hit the ground. With a flick of his wrist, tomes on Malfoy and Black family heirlooms flew from their perches and stacked themselves on the study table before the fire. Books on curses that could be applied to jewelry came next. He'd need to prune that stack; it was teetering, several feet high. Who knew jewelry was such a popular item to curse? Curse reversals was next; only five books whizzed past to settle on the table. Well, he'd expected as much. He stood, wand poised to cast again, but couldn't think of another category to query at the moment. Instead, he Apparated back to the room, stack of books in tow.

The Healer still stood over Hermione, casting and administering potions. His motions seemed less urgent; Draco hoped that was a good sign. He strode over to the desk and settled himself in the large-wing backed chair.

He picked up the first book, one from the first pile on family heirlooms and Accio-ed some parchment. He inspired slowly and cleared his mind before dangling his wand and carefully tracing a searching rune into the air. He whispered "Accio Verbum" as he mentally imagined words or images pertaining to "ring" or "flower." He'd paid a pretty Knut to a Ravenclaw to teach him the spell last year, but he hadn't used it much since his cabinetry escapades and was relieved when golden light etched the edges of the relevant pages, indicating it had worked. He flipped the book open to the first glowing page and started reading.

* * *

Draco awoke suddenly to a polite cough. Zibby held a tray of steaming pancakes, eggs, and sausages and a full carafe of coffee. Stiffly, he uncurled his bent spine that had, apparently, grown rather fond of the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in. He nodded at Zibby, who placed the tray on the table, curtsied, and disappeared.

Draco's thoughts started trickling into his waking brain. Hermione. He spun around, relieved to see the Healer sitting by her bedside, monitoring her progress. He signed. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but had apparently succumbed at some point after midnight. He'd spent the afternoon, evening, and night reading, scratching down potentially useful curses, diagnostic spells, and counter-curses.

And found nothing.

He started at the bleak scene before him before impulsively calling Zibby. A loud pop announced her arrival.

"Fetch my mother here," he commanded. He wasn't sure if he needed her re-assuring presence or her advice, but at this moment the weight of the last few months was too much to bear alone.

Narcissa Malfoy strode through a flash of green flames out of the fireplace.

"Draco, dear. What's wrong?"

Her face matched his in pallor, her usually serene face knotted with worry. Draco's eyes flitted around her, as if he could avoid her question the same way he could avoid her eyes. He looked at Hermione. She hadn't moved a centimeter from the last he'd seen her, but her face was still rosy albeit pale, not the waxy grey of death. Her chest delicately rose and fell. She was still alive at least.

"What happened, Draco?" his mother whispered, eyes trained on the girl and the Healer.

And like that, at the sound of his mother's gentle voice, the voice which had read to him as a child, congratulated him and fawned over him when he came home from school, his intentions were decimated like cupcakes before Crabbe and Goyle. He hiccupped a sob and threw himself into her arms.

She stood firm, despite the fact that he now dwarfed her by several handspans, and wrapped her arms around her child. She squeezed him gently, and he responded by caving in on himself, sobbing harder. Narcissa muttered a spell, elongating one of the chairs by the fire into a sofa and guided her son to it. She settled both of them, flicking the door shut, and warding the sofa from prying eyes and ears with a few elegant chops of her wand.

"Draco, dearest, what happened?" she inquired again.

Draco leaned against her shoulder, feeling suddenly so empty and so tired. He was too weary, too weak to bear it after wrestling with his struggles for so long.

"I gave her a ring I found in the attic. I-I tested it. Put it on myself, ran diagnostic spells." The words poured out of him in a rush, dragging that awful guilty sludge up from his core as he did. "She smiled, Mother, at me. For giving it to her. She was happy in the sunshine amongst the beautiful flowers, because I gave her a ring. And then she screamed and she fell, and it's all my fault." Another hacking sob fought free. "It's all my fault and it's all for naught. I'll still fail the Dark Lord and she'll still be dead. We'll all be dead."

His mother's arms never wavered in their firm hold around his shoulders. "What have you learned so far?" she asked. He felt an incongruous flare of pride; his brilliant mother had followed his mangled explanation and was moving to solutions.

"It's a Malfoy family heirloom, given to Lyra Malfoy by her husband Armand II. Apparently she was 'as lovely as a rose in bloom, but her temper would give their thorns cause to learn.'" He spat the quote, bitterness coating his mouth. "Apparently, by 'temper' they meant that Armand had fancied a Mudblood witch at school before he married Lyra, or at least she was convinced he had, and she subsequently cursed all her jewelry, in case he ever got it into his head to give her precious baubles to 'the filth.'" Draco's throat was still raw, but his shuddering sobs had ceased, as the concrete task of filling his mother in on his research distracted him. "Beyond that, I can't figure out what the curse is. It isn't a great number of things, I made a list somewhere…" He sighed. "I only picked it because I thought she'd like the rose," he finished. Both Malfoys looked over to Hermione's still form.

Mother and son sat in silence for many long moments. "I think you should contact your godfather," Narcissa finally offered. "I know," she quipped, before her son could interrupt, "that you may be loathe to do so after the events of last spring, but I do trust him, and I think he will be able to help. Experimental curses are..." she paused for a long moment. "... an interest of his, let's say."

Draco nodded his head, to indicate he'd heard her.

A long while later, she kissed his hair and stood. "For what it's worth Draco, I'm very proud of you." He swore tears sparkled in her eyes, although when she blinked they were dry. As she strode from the room, Draco wondered what she was proud of him for.

He contemplated her words for a moment before attending to the more urgent matter at hand-writing his godfather. Every movement of his quill felt like a noose tightening around his neck; in debt to the greasy man, again, for failing at his appointed tasks. Snape's actions always seemed to indicate that Draco could trust him, but there was something, something he couldn't quite define that made him suspicious of the older Death Eater. Made him leery of fully trusting him. Draco's quill danced on, despite his misgivings. In the end, his parchment read:

"Professor Snape, Hermione's been cursed, badly. I need help; the Dark Lord can't know. -DM"


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Thanks again for following along thus far! It's been great to hear all of your reactions. I'm sorry I haven't been great at responding to comments. I will try to be better moving forward. **

**DramioneForever: I agree; they are so young! That's definitely a critical element to how I am trying to portray these characters.**

**Inkwolf199: Glad you're enjoying it and don't hate my Hermione so much that you hope she dies!**

**VelvetRoseMorning: I want that ring too! Glad you are enjoying it so far.**

**DramioneFever + Guest re. eyebrows: I did try to follow canon with Hermione's description. I also was aiming-in writing this with some Draco's flavor in narration to capture *his* feelings about her hair and eyebrows-which definitely wouldn't be favorable!**

Draco stood rigidly next to Hermione's bed, flanked by their former Potions professor. Inwardly, he continued his self-flagellation for idiocy; Snape's disbelieving sneer when he was informed of the cause for Hermione's curse had re-ignited his self-recrimination. The greasy-haired man had read through the notes Draco had collated for him, and was now running his own set of diagnostic spells with a dispassion any Malfoy would envy. Draco vaguely noticed that he'd never heard of most of the spells, and wondered briefly where Snape had learned them, before returning to his internal melancholy.

Finally, Snape huffed out a long-suffering sigh. "This is indeed a nasty bit of magic." His drawled 'nasty' implied he wanted to use a stronger word but had refrained. Draco fidgeted, feeling every bit of the chastisement his mentor's statement was meant to inflict. "However, your fiancee isn't dead, which, coincidentally was what the curse originally intended." 'Fiancee' was drawled with the same intonation as 'nasty' had been, Draco noted a millisecond before his stomach dropped at the realization of how close to death Hermione truly had been; the horrible, guilty feeling in his gut had largely dissipated once Snape had arrived to fix everything. Snape continued, a twitch of his eyebrow the only indication he'd seen Draco's horror at his pronouncement. "Yes, let us give thanks to the sloppy decay-preventing spells your ancestors used to preserve their delightful curses." He paused briefly. "I have about twelve potions I'll want to brew to protect Miss Granger while I remove the curse from her. I will leave instructions for the ingredients to be prepared."

* * *

Draco swore he had spent more hours cutting, juicing, mincing, straining, boiling, and drying than he had spent sleeping in the last two days. Honestly, that might actually have been true. The joints in his fingers popped as he flexed his sore hands. His neck was stiff from bending over the laboratory bench and his vision felt a little fuzzy from squinting at the careful slices and cuts he'd been making. All in all, he was utterly miserable, and all for a Mudblood, whose health-or lack thereof-was slowly driving him spare. And, who in all likelihood, would be furious at him once she awoke.

The series of potions they were making were designed to protect Hermione's body and mind from the backlash that they would unleash by breaking the curse with the spell that Snape recommended. "They" being a generous term to describe the effort; Snape really was doing all the complicated brewing, leaving Draco to the tedium of cutting and drying and boiling and all the rest. Despite the miserable conditions, a large part of Draco was just grateful that he wasn't alone, that an adult knew what to do and was directing him. Last year, he'd felt so grown-up, so self-assured in his prowess and his abilities, and his receipt of the Dark Mark had reinforced his belief that he was indeed as mature as he'd ever be. He deeply wanted to sock his younger self for his juvenile idiocy. Right now, he wasn't ready to be facing this dark world and wanted nothing more than to be treated as a child again. No responsibilities. No repercussions.

He rolled his head, feeling the tendons in his neck strain at this new activity before settling himself back at his task.

* * *

Hours later, Snape swept down the stairs. He'd probably meant it to be dramatic. And Draco supposed it was, as long as one found giant greasy bats capable of drama. The sensible part of Draco's brain was too worn out from keeping him focused on his ingredient preparation throughout the day that it didn't even chime in with the usual bit of reproach about uncharitable comments towards his godfather. Small mercies.

"You've prepared everything?" The man's deep voice was clipped, efficient.

Draco nodded. In his own, unbiased opinion, he'd gone above and beyond. He'd made a detailed list of the ingredients that he'd carefully consulted and marked, so he could track precisely that, for example, the dumbo octopus mantle had been coarsely chopped, simmered for 27 minutes, and then ground into a paste. He'd then laid the ingredients out in bowls that he'd labelled with tiny bits of parchment that he'd charmed to hover over the far edge. He'd added charms to prevent spills around the whole table. He himself was a sweaty, disgruntled, weary mess, but his ingredients table was a beautiful sight indeed.

He was rewarded by a nod. There were no pesky Gryffindors present, so Snape evidently found no need to inflate Draco's ego with unnecessary praise.

"Set the copper cauldron over a 200 degree fire." Draco shuffled across the room to comply.

* * *

Draco's days had settled into an uncomfortable, unpleasant routine. In the morning, he would check on the various potions he was assisting Snape to brew. He would typically chop or boil a few more ingredients that needed to be prepared fresh before stirring or agitating or freezing the appropriate cauldrons and flasks. He was glad, grateful even, that Snape was directing this herculean effort. It was all Draco could do to keep organized and on top of the sixty odd components that were steeping in tandem for the twelve odd potions they were making for Hermione; Snape was the one actually doing to calculations and assessments for the brews.

Potions done, he'd typically take a bath, as if he could leach the bone-weariness and worry about of his skin. It never worked, but it did at least remove the sweat and the cloying scent of dried asphodel and essence of toad-wart from his skin. Then, he'd sit by Hermione and read to her from her school notes for a while; the Healer slept while he was with her, temporarily relieved of his duty to keep her alive long enough for them to lift the curse. He didn't really know why he read to her, rather than to himself, but he fancied that Hermione might be slightly less furious at him if he could tell her, honestly, that he'd tried to sneak knowledge into her comatose brain. Mostly, he tried not to think about it too much.

Next, lunch with his parents. He didn't have the same energy he'd had previously to fight them on this, so instead, he sat with them each day in a stilted mockery of their former family meals. He rather felt his parents were mollycoddling him, which was a strange sensation. His mother would gently ask him how he was doing and how his project progressed; her tones suggested real concern, although her words were always carefully selected so that listening ears could find no reason for suspicion that the youngest Malfoy's project progressed with anything less than splendour. His father told him that the Order of the Phoenix had made several raids and attacks in the last few days that seemed to be in search of Hermione; they always pulled out after fanning out in a search pattern without too much of a fight. Draco had felt rather buoyed by this news, which ostensibly had been given to show him his plan was worked. It meant that someone out there cared for Hermione, and a small part of him rather thought she deserved that, given that she'd almost been killed by the person she thought to be her fiancee.

In the afternoon, he'd conduct more potions preparations and then emerge sweaty, smelly, and tired. He'd take a quick shower and then return to Hermione's room and read, plan, or practice spells. He spent a great deal of time trying to figure out what he'd tell her when she awoke, and good amount of time figuring out what dark magic he'd endeavor to teach her.

Finally, he'd fall into his bed, ready to be tortured by his guilt laden dreams.

* * *

Five days after she'd been cursed, seven (known) raids by the Order looking for her, and two seemingly permanent dark circles under Draco's eyes, the potions were finally ready, and Snape was confident he'd found the appropriate curse-breaking spell to treat Hermione. Draco felt a frisson of nervousness wash over him.

At a nod from Snape, Draco tilted the last potion down Hermione's throat, watching carefully to make sure she swallowed. He returned the nod. Snape wove his hands in a complicated series of gestures over her prone figure while chanting and occasionally humming. Eventually, so slowly that at first Draco thought he was imagining it, tiny pieces of shadow started to emerge from her pores. The pricks of darkness slowly bloated until Hermione was coated in a diaphanous, oily black veil. The sight made bile rise in Draco's throat, but he kept his expression impassive as he swallowed it down; he didn't dare disturb the complicated incantation his godfather was casting.

Once the black coating was several centimeters thick, Draco grabbed the jar that he'd prepared earlier; it contained a neutralizing potion at the bottom that would help them contain the gross black goo that was the physical manifestation of the curse. He then took the weird spatula-like instrument that Snape had brought and began the process of sloughing the guck into the jar. The stuff offered no resistance to his movements, as if it weren't really there, although it appeared in the jar readily enough.

Snape's chanting stopped, and Draco screwed the top of the jar shut with a feeling of accomplishment. He handed the jar to Snape, who grabbed it eagerly; Draco shuddered to think what Snape would do with the awful goo. It was too much to hope that the Potions Master would destroy it.

Draco loosed a sigh when Hermione's eyelids fluttered, as if they fought an invisible force to open themselves. Her eyes suddenly shot open, and darted around in confusion.

**EN: Sorry this chapter is a bit slow; I wanted to capture the tedium Draco felt! Also, full disclosure (especially for anyone who read this on Hawthorne & Vine originally: when I got to this point, I felt like I wasn't portraying Hermione in character, so I am re-writing large tracts of it. I am still multiple chapters ahead and have a plan of where it is going, but wanted to keep you all in the loop!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks all for continuing to read! **

**DramioneFever: Thanks! I've been trying to portray Draco's thoughts as they change little by little, so I'm glad you like how I've done that so far.**

Snape made a speedy exit, clutching the jar like it was his child. Ugh, what an awful thought! Hermione's eyes followed the greasy man before flicking back to Draco. She stared at him as if her eyes could pull answers from him. It almost worked; the intensity of her gaze made him want to spill everything, to confess.

Draco found himself rasping out "I am so so sorry Hermione." Silence hung for a few moments before his guilt squeezed a few more painful words from him. "And, I am so glad you are okay."

"Please come hold me?" she asked faintly.

Draco stared at her dumbly, before rushing the few steps to the bedside and settling himself beside her.

"How do you feel?"

"Like a train hit me and then all my internal organs were sucked through me pores."

Draco blanched, or rather, he imagined he would have if his already pasty skin hadn't been further deprived of any sunlight for the past few months he'd been cooped up in the Manor. The latter part sounded creepily similar to the curse extraction.

"The Healer will be back soon to check on you." The man was actually already late; he'd been sent away while the curse removal took place, as it was both a highly sensitive and highly dangerous process. But that didn't mean Draco didn't expect him to come back!

"What happened?" she queried. "I don't remember anything after your putting the ring on my finger."

She glanced at her finger, the rose now innocently sparking in the firelight. Draco stared at it moodily; it looked so innocuous, no hint of the dark curse it had harbored mere minutes ago marring its surface.

"It was all my fault," he began slowly. He hadn't settled on a good lie to tell her yet. She wasn't stupid, and how implausible was it that she had ended up terribly cursed with an unseen villain as culprit twice in a month? Plus, how would the Order have cursed her on Malfoy properties? The anxious, scared look on her face seemed to pull the truth out of him like taffy. "I, ugh. Have glossed over some unpleasant truths. My family, whom I'm sure you've noticed have been conspicuously absent in wishing you a healthy recovery, don't have greatest, err, track record in terms of tolerance for… your type. Blood type. Muggle blood." Well, more truth than he would have intended. Her nostrils flared slightly.

"I'm fine with it, obviously," he babbled. This was not going well at all!

"Anyways, I made a stupid decision. The ring I originally gave you, it was fine. There was a big shiny diamond on it, the usual, but it had no history, no meaning. I wanted you to have something better this time around. I had found this one in the attic, and it seemed so perfect for you. I thought you'd like the way the magic makes it move; you've never lost your joy at seeing magic, and I thought you'd even like that it's red and green for our house colors." He ran his fingers through his hair. This was uncomfortable, weaving bits of truth so raw he didn't want to admit them to himself with gross fabrications. He had really thought those things about the ring and remembering his confidence in her reaction made him feel as if his guts had turned to jelly.

"So, I ran every diagnostic spell I could on it, put it on myself; it was fine. I'd forgotten how vindictive some of my ancestors could be when it came to Muggle-borns and that curses targeting them wouldn't have affected me. So, I gave you the new ring, with no thought other than that you'd like it and -" His voice cracked. "And it was cursed and it almost killed you."

She was silent for several moments before jerking back away from him.

"Get out," she breathed.

Draco felt as if she'd slapped him.

"Please, Hermione, talk to me. I'm so sorry I hurt you, that you suffered because of it."

He saw her eyes flick towards her wand on the bedside table, just out of reach.

"I'm not angry because of the ring," she whispered. "I'm angry because you lied and withheld information from me. I _trusted_ you completely, tried to rebuild our relationship from the information you gave me."

Her voice cracked and a few tears ran down her face. Her voice rose steadily in pitch. "And now, I learn I've been given some sanitized version of events? What else am I missing? How can I trust anything you've told me?"

Draco had scarcely opened his mouth to reply when she screamed, "I said get out!"

She pounded both fists on the bed beside her and the window across the room shattered into a million pieces. Shite. She was either completely out of control of her magic or much more adept at wandless magic than he realized. He wasn't sure which possibility terrified him more.

Draco scuttled off the bed, hands held up to show he was un-wanded. The curse extraction had been so fragile his wand might have thrown it off; he was thinking now it might have been a risk he could have taken!

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," he choked.

The chandelier exploded next, raining shards of crystal over both of them.

Draco rushed from the room and slammed the door behind him as he heard another explosion. She seemed to be going for glass, so he'd guess the mirrors were the next victim.

His pulse beat wildly through his veins. He'd expected her mistrust or her fear, not her anger. Salazar, winning her over again was going to be a nightmare. If it was even possible, a wavering, reproachful voice added in his head.

He slinked back to his room to grab his wand.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, he was pacing. Mistrustful, angry Hermione was not good. She could be plotting an escape or attack on him this very moment! He only knew she wasn't escaping now because of the thick mesh of wards that entombed the whole space; they'd have alerted him if she were to breach them. But she could be plotting, definitely. And the whole reason he'd saved her was her cleverness and power. So now, he had to worry about an uncooperative Hermione, all because- what?-he'd tried, no succeeded!, in saving her life twice? Seriously, a little gratitude and understanding wouldn't kill her.

The last thought stopped Draco's thoughts and pacing. Ugh, Hermione's life had, indeed, been on the line a number of times since she'd been dragged into his home. From _her_ perspective, she'd been nearly killed twice, for no understandable reason. And she didn't even know the half of it. The slithery guilty feeling seemed to have taken permanent residence in his belly.

* * *

Draco had camped outside her room for hours, extendable ears (the Weasley twins were genius, no matter their loyalties) assessing the situation inside. There had been a lot of silence (maybe she was sleeping?) and some crying (it had made him at once want to flee and go comfort her; he was confident he wasn't a comforting presence right now though, so he stayed put). The Healer had come to check on her and declared her in good health; he'd left without being Obliviated - something Draco would have to deal with later. Her attempts to discreetly pump him for information had been comical-she was not discreet and the man had been Obliviated of the whole ordeal prior to the curse removal so he had no idea what had happened anyways. Calm had reigned for long enough that he was willing to risk Plan A: Charm Offensive.

Draco knocked on her door, dinner tray in hand. He figured a show of humility might make her more amenable to reconciliation. He surmised a shouted "I'm still mad at you" was as close to "come in" as he was going to get, so he entered.

"Hey," he whispered. _Lamely_ he chastised himself.

"Hey." She hadn't shouted; nothing had exploded. That was an improvement.

"I brought you dinner. And my most heartfelt apologies. For hurting you and for keeping things from you." He set the tray next to her on the bed and dragged a chair over so he could sit by her. "We can talk about it all whenever you're ready. And I know that it might be a long time from now before you trust me enough to talk to me. I'll wait."

His rehearsed words sounded less compelling now they'd been unleashed into the unforgiving air. Hermione sighed deeply, and was silent for a moment. Her scrunched face suggested an internal battle being fought over what to say next.

"I'm just scared, Draco." Hermione's eyes were locked on his once she decided to speak. Draco refrained from sighing himself. They were clearly going to hash this out the heart-to-heart Gryffindor way, and not the dance-around-it Slytherin way. Salazar save him.

"I just, something feels off. It might just be my missing memories, I know, but… I feel like I'm missing _something_." Her eyes flicked down. "Not that I don't trust you, I mean, you've taken such good care of me, and I like to think I'd have some sort of ishy feeling if you were out to get me, but nothing makes sense! Why is some Order out to get me? And your family too?

"It's terrifying. You're my lifeline in all this and to find out-" Her voice hitched, but she grimaced and forged on. "Find out that you've been lying to me, protecting me from more enemies than I could ever imagine having…"

Draco waited for her to finish but she let her eyes slide away and started picking listlessly at her dinner.

Draco nodded, a knot suddenly occupying his throat. _Protecting me from more enemies. _She thought he had lied to protect her. Cool relief should have been flooding his veins, since she seemed to be very much on his side still, which meant that his near future was less likely to involve his mangled corpse being shredded into gourmet kibble for Nagini, but all he felt was guilt. This project was really doing a number on his psyche. Her words tortured and tantalized him. Maybe because Dumbledore' belief in his goodness was a belief in _potential-_what he could be if he changed sides-while Hermione's statements evidenced a trust and confidence in him _right now. _An unfounded trust, to be sure, but that taste of what it would feel like, not to be reviled, to be the good guy by someone so upstanding as the Gryffindor Princess…

"I can explain, I promise. I can only imagine how awful this must all feel for you, and I wasn't thinking about then when I omitted information about my family," he pleaded, weaving a new web of pretty lies to placate her. If he had a soul still, he could feel it withering away now into some blackened corner of his heart.

"I was ashamed of my family, their beliefs and I didn't want to say anything that would drive you away while you were still getting to know me again. Love, I've been so terrified that the relationship we've built, that you would see this, see me with new eyes and realize you could do better. I know, I know, that was selfish, and you deserved-deserve, the truth and the ability to make your own decisions. It's… I've been so afraid you'd leave."

Hermione sighed, "I still feel like you've stabbed me in the gut."

She viciously stabbed a carrot with her fork. "I will try, but I just don't know how you expect me to trust you anymore. I don't even know how to start."

She finished her dinner without another word and handed her tray to Draco.

"Do you need anything else?" Draco offered.

"Someone I can trust," she gritted out. Her eyes glistened with tears again, and Draco let himself out, feeling as nervous and frustrated as when he came in.

* * *

Draco had scarcely flopped onto his bed, head reeling from his conversation with his "fiancée," struggling to imagine how to regain her trust-something Slytherins weren't well known for ever giving out-and prevent both their violent deaths at the merciless hands of the Dark Lord, when, speak of the devil, he was summoned by the red-eyed bugger.

Draco tried not to drag his feet like a petulant toddler as he obeyed the summons. To dinner. The incongruence of the Dark Lord-whose commanders were nightmares in their own right, who led rituals so dark, so horrible that even Death Eaters would vomit at their remembrance, whose familiar was a malevolent, man-eating snake-doing something so benign, so banal at eating meals never ceased to fascinate and horrify Draco. Right foot forward. He wondered sometimes if he only engaged in such mortal, plebeian activities so that his followers might have their everyday activities forever marred by memories of darkness. Or maybe Draco thought too much about it. He longed to be back up with Hermione, who was surely now enjoying the chocolate cake the elves had brought her, probably with cocoa. They fawned over her, especially when Draco was gone, fearing she'd be lonely without the young Master. Draco sighed internally, pushing his left foot forward. He was reduced to wanting to spend time with a Mudblood who was furious and moping and barely talking to him. Right foot forward.

When Draco's dragging feet finally brought him to the dining hall, he saw it was apparently to be a family affair-Lucius, Narcissa, Aunt Bella, the Dark Lord, and Draco. An intimate gathering. Delightful. If he hadn't known better Draco would have considered that perhaps the Dark Lord wanted to belong, wanted a family of his own and was using the Malfoy family as a surrogate. However, Draco _did_ know better; he just wasn't sure why the Dark Lord seemed to spend so much energy and time with the Black-Malfoy clan. Probably he didn't want to know the answer.

Draco settled himself, his thoughts tumbling around wildly within the Occlumency walls that imprisoned them. Thoughts of food, of subservience, of admiration for the Dark Lord floated outside that barrier, ready to be inspected and scrutinized.

"Draco," the Dark Lord purred. Every hair on Draco's body stood to attention at that tone. He saw his mother and father stiffen slightly as well. Only Aunt Bella seemed unperturbed, gesturing grandly, but silently, to the house elves that they should bring food out. Draco bristled a little at her gall, ordering the elves in his father's house. She looked rather like a demented dancer. Muggle dancer, Draco added. Aunt Bella would _hate _being compared to a Muggle dancer; Draco smirked internally.

The Dark Lord continued. "I am quite pleased with the effects of your hostage on the Order. They have become bolder, striking more often than ever, presumably in search of Dear Miss Mudblood. It's done wonders for keeping the dungeons nice and full." The man crooned the last words, and Draco felt the words slither up his spine. He wondered how many gaunt faces he'd recognize downstairs if he dared investigate.

"However, my pathetic Snatchers and Death Eaters have not seen Potter on these raids, and my patience has grown thin. I want him _here_ and _dead_." The Dark Lord's words seemed to hang in the air, like a mist, before Draco. He tried to guess what the madman wanted with him. For her to fight? To lure Potter out? To conduct some terribly dark spell that would siphon off Hermione's power to enrich the already overpowered snake-man? He kept his face impassive as he frantically shoved those thoughts past the protective walls of his mind, that the Dark Lord wouldn't see them. Aunt Bella seemed to hang on his every word. She gazed eagerly at the pale, red-eyed monster like a puppy awaiting a special treat.

"I have a task for you," the Dark Lord eventually informed them, twirling a speared olive lazily on a fork. His aunt drooped like a marionette whose strings had been cut; apparently "task for Draco" did not translate to "let Bellatrix maim" as far as she was aware.

"I want to know why Potter isn't looking for his dear friend, and I want you to use her to find out. Or figure out how to use her to lure him out. As long as I have his head on the mantle by the Solstice."

Bella clapped like a child at this pronouncement.

"Master," she tittered, "I could torture her out in public. Surely he would come to rescue her then. I have lovely new blade for it even." Her eyelids fluttered in pleasure.

Draco rolled his eyes, hoping to project a dispassionate calm he did not feel.

"And if that fails? We'll have a damaged Mudblood whose powers we can't use to our ends. There's only so much Obliviation a mind can take without degradation." He ruefully thought of the Healer; they'd need to be replacing him in a month or so for this very reason.

"I have convinced her the Order is the enemy and that they are a dangerous terrorist organization. I am sure she will happily help us figure out what that prat is up to and lead him into our trap." Draco smiled tightly. "I will not fail you again My Lord."

He tried very hard not to picture what Potter's head would look like on his mantle.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Okay, so we're officially caught up to what I've (re)-written so far! Your reviews and feedback are so helpful and encouraging. It's great to hear how you find the characters I've written. **

**DramioneFever: I'm glad you like how Draco is responding! I've been enjoying writing him, as he is so complicated! **

**Mega70021: Thanks!**

**Le soleil brille pas pour toi: Glad you are liking the characterizations! **

Draco trudged back upstairs. He now had an assignment from the Dark Lord, using a _tool_ who currently mistrusted him. Bloody fantastic. He had no idea how to use Hermione to figure out what Potter was up to. He couldn't very well let her go ask; she'd be back in the clutches of the do-gooders and on their side in a second flat.

He supposed he could Imperious her, but given the Order knew she had been in Death Eater hands, they would undoubtedly check for the telltale signs before blithely spilling secrets. And then he risked her escaping and being back in their hands with additional information about him and the Manor to boot.

Polyjuice? They might check for that as well, and he doubted, heck he was sure, he didn't know enough about her comportment with her friends to believably extract information. Plus, it would put him in an unbelievable amount of danger. Better than Imperious though, in terms of detection, magically. Heck, that old bat Mad Eye had used it for a whole freaking school year under Dumbledore's nose.

Ugh, even if he could convince her to trust him again and to go speak with them herself, how would he explain that they'd treat her as a friend they'd been worried to death over? He really had no idea how to approach this and was baffled as to what the slimy-snake man had envisaged his role to be. Given the impossibility of his task the previous year, maybe he just expected more failure.

Draco spent the evening in his room brainstorming and researching. He read through old tomes of espionage, wrote out wilder and more fantastic ideas, charted out pros and cons lists… He found himself wishing he could ask for Hermione's help. He imagined her neat printed text as she researched the spells that could cause memory loss, her furrowed brow as she tested her skills against his in Transfiguration. A weaker man would have described the feeling coursing through him as _missing _her.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, feeling the pressure build. The hopelessness of this task was making him maudlin and nonsensical.

He looked at his list again. Once he'd thought through it, he realized that not knowing how to use Hermione to extract information was the least of his problems; he didn't even know how to find Potty. Hermione wouldn't even know how to contact him, what with her memory loss of his very existence. He picked up a book on communication spells again and hoped it would jog some ideas into his tired brain.

* * *

The next morning, Draco visited Hermione again. She had tottered over to her desk and sat in her pajamas, reading through one of the many books on memory she'd pulled from the library. He'd brought a peace offering - a set of rare books from deep within the Malfoy library on Dark Magic that touched on memory altering spells.

Her head whipped around when he entered, her face twisted into an expression of discontent.

"I know you're mad. I want to help," he offered.

He set the books next to hers on the desk, tilting the first one so she could see the title - _Darkest Spelles to Control the Feeble Mind_.

He dodged a stinging hex.

"Not the nicest books, I'm aware, but I thought the darker stuff might have the nastier spells you're really looking for. And no, I'm not implying you have a feeble mind, either."

She made a moue of disgust, but she reached for the books eagerly. The wrinkles from her face smoothed a bit as she started to flip through the first one. She flicked her fingers in dismissal.

He cleared his throat. "Also, I have a spell I think you will really like."

She scowled at him for interrupting. He couldn't help contrast that look with the smile she'd given him in the garden, with the bashful look when she'd asked him to kiss her... He flicked his eyes towards her finger. She still wore the ring, whatever that meant. He forged on and explained the spell he'd bought off the Ravenclaw for finding useful pages in books. Hermione dutifully copied his motions and squealed when the new books lit up like the night sky with her search words. She smiled at him for the first time in days, before quickly reschooling her face into that dreadful scowl.

Scowling accentuated her awful eyebrows he thought peevishly.

"Still. Angry," she explained, again making larger shooing gestures. "Or do you need it spelled out a bit more explicitly?"

Draco hesitated, wanting to capitalize on the brief smile she'd shown. It was a moment too long.

"Locomotor volex," she drawled, flicking her wand sideways. Draco felt as if a gust of wind crashed into his stomach and lifted him upward and back; he stumbled as he landed just outside her door. He looked up just in time to see her cast a non-verbal Clodoportus, slamming to door in his face.

Still angry indeed. He squelched his instinct to bang on the door with his fist to show her his anger in return and settled for stomping loudly down the hall to his room.

* * *

Draco ran his fingers through his hair, hard enough that he felt a few hairs pull from his scalp. A year ago, he'd have worried he'd go prematurely bald. Now, the only sort of premature he really worried about was the one that preceded death. He looked at the parchment before him again. The polyjuice potion seemed to be his only hope. Not a good option, but… well, actually it was his only viable option, so that was what he'd go with.

Now the question was how to obtain some. He _was _ working on an official assignment, so he could probably swing some of the standing stock the Death Eaters kept. However, he'd also bragged to the Dark Lord that he had Hermione angry at the Order and ready to act against them. He wasn't sure how believable his excuse that she might be caught was.

Then again, it's not as if he had the time to brew the damned potion.

He banged his head softly against the desk, feeling the dull thud of the wood against his skull. Why was everything so hard?

On his sixth thud, an idea was knocked loose. Galleons. This was one of the few problems that faced him recently he could solve with money. He loved those sort of problems - easy and their completion left him with a sort of warm, superior glow that only flaunting his hereditary wealth and status could.

Moments later, a loud pop coincided with his disappearance from the room.

* * *

Landing in Diagon Alley, Draco pretended all was well. It was a technique his mother had taught him when the Dark Lord had moved into their home. Walk, talk, smile as if all is well and you'll slowly feel as if it's true. It didn't really work all that well living in a house of horrors, but out in Diagon Alley, with a sketch of plan… It was still easier thought than executed-the crowd was thin and moved quickly, heads down. A few storefronts had char marks on them, evidencing the scuffles between the Dark and the Light. The watery sunlight seemed to struggle to pierce the sombre clouds.

Nevertheless, Draco puffed up his chest, held his head high and stalked over to Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. The front window was filled with healing potions and concealment ointments and through the window he saw many more bustling witches and wizards than on the main thoroughfare. Stocking up for more danger. Draco's imaginary good bubble burst inside his head. Diagon Alley was no longer the kind of place one could walk safely with an ice-cream, eying the latest brooms and wet-start fireworks. It was sort of place for battles and -

Draco stopped just outside the door, arrested by his thought. _Kidnappings. _He'd been torturing his brain to figure out how to connect with Weaslebee and Potty-pants, when they were actively looking for her. He didn't need to find them, he just needed to be seen, as Hermione, and lure them… somewhere. The details of the plan were still vague but the flounce in his step as he stepped into the dim apothecary was strong and sure.

* * *

Draco sat in his room, bottle of Polyjuice potion on his desk, ready for the addition of a single tortuously curled hair (that'd carefully accio-ed from beneath the door, not being particularly keen on being seen by an already angry Hermione). He'd spent the better part of the previous day watching his memories of her in the family Pensieve. He'd watched the memory of her writhing on the floor under his aunt's wand even though it made him feel ill. He didn't know how Hermione acted in private with her friends, but he'd seen how she acted under torture, and a Hermione who'd miraculously "escaped" from Death Eater clutches would be, he decided, more similar to the woman who'd wiped her own memory under torture than the school he'd watched answer every question at school.

But he watched them all anyways.

And he'd called Mipsy to watch him walk and talk with a test batch of the Polyjuice. She'd been delighted to help Young Master plan a surprise for Young Mistress and had watched him intently, barely blinking as he'd tried to mimic the way she tugged on her hair and bit her lip when thinking, or how she'd hitch her shoulders back, just an inch, when she disagreed. It had taken hours - not only because it was hard, but because extracting feedback from the deferential drivel house elves spouted was nigh impossible. But what other options did he have?

The set of robes he'd Transfigured to match the ones she'd worn in Diagon Alley - plus some added rips and grime to account for her struggles in her escape - sat on his bed, ready for his use once he was in Hermione's smaller frame.

He called Mipsy in and gave her a few final instructions, before he dropped the hair into the drink. It frothed and bubbled and turned a creamy, caramel color. He grimaced and chugged the potion; he was surprised it tasted of cinnamon and chocolate, not whatever ground animal parts and human hair should have tasted like. Or what potions like Skelegro _did _ taste like.

Moments later, a frantic Hermione Granger stumbled across the edge of the Malfoy property and Apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: The action will start picking up from here on out! **

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It wasn't difficult for Draco to feign panic as he appeared outside the ruins of the Burrow. He was willingly running towards the enemy, hoping to be captured and there was so very much that could go wrong with his plan.

The formerly ramshackle architectural monstrosity looked like the Whomping Willow had taken a good thousand swings at it, and scorch marks pocked the dried grass around the old house. It smelled of smoke and blood. The last time he'd been there had been to wedding crash, but he'd heard about the battle that had ensued after Weasle had escaped his family's dungeons.

But Hermione wouldn't know about that and she would be looking for ways to find her friends and allies. And if she were weak and not able to Apparate very far, she'd probably come here rather than a farther off, better hidden safe-house. He hoped at least that that logic had enough Hermione in it not to be questioned.

He scanned the property for wards, channeling what he'd seen of Hermione's quick mind. She would try to trip anything that would alert the Weasley's of her presence while avoiding anything that tipped off Death Eaters.

He was almost disgusted for find no trace of wards from his camp - really, how stupid were some of the Dark Lord's minions? Good at smashing, less so at subterfuge. He also didn't detect any other wards or warning spells; it seems the Weasley's hadn't returned since that battle.

He growled in frustration, surprising himself when it came out much higher pitched than he was used to. Being a girl was weird. What would Hermione do? The panic was bubbling in his gut as doubt whispered in his ear.

He cast his eyes around again, before seeing the front door - a garish, purple slab with the word "Welcome!" half burned off. Most wizarding families had a Evigiloportus on the door, to alert them of guests. He prayed as he carefully picked his way across the silent lawn that they'd gotten the door from a reputable manufacturer who'd set the door-bell spell firmly into the wood and not tried some simple hedge spells that would have faded. Although who knew how even the best laid professional home spells interacted with Unforgiveables... He placed his hand on the door and waited for the tell-tale warming sensation. Nothing. Dammit. He kicked at the purple monstrosity in frustration, rewarding himself only with a scuff on his tiny boots and a very sore toe.

He cast a Tempus charm and saw he'd already wasted half an hour. He had expected them to have kept some sort of watch over the property, not having realized how thoroughly destroyed it was.

Choosing not to spend longer than necessary in the ruins of his schoolyard nemesis, he took a deep breath and Apparated to northwest London.

* * *

Draco appeared in front of a square brick house flanked by unruly hedges. As he felt the thick, sticky wards surrounding it, his pulse started racing. He'd been wrong about the Order's monitoring the Burrow, but not about their attention to Hermione's childhood home. He thought he felt his heartbeat waver, as he desperately wanted to flee.

Instead, he began the slow dance of identifying each warding spell. Several would be fine-he had no intention of harming the inhabitants, and for another… he was fairly certain being Polyjuiced as Hermione would get him across them. As for the warning spells, well he was hoping to set those off! After double-checking his work, he darted across the wards, wand out. He tried to channel the determined face he'd seen on her face when she'd been dragged into his home. He felt a little bubble of relief that her house still stood, that he hadn't lied to her about her parents' safety. The home appeared thoroughly abandoned, a hunch confirmed by his Hominum revelio. Quickly, he cast a discrete Alohomora on the door and entered Hermione's Muggle home. It looked shockingly normal. Clean, tasteful decorations, a nice china cabinet. Besides the creepily still photos, it might have been a wizard's home. Not his home, but a poorer wizard's home.

He'd barely turned a full circle when he heard the tell-tale pops of Apparition outside. He rushed to the window to see who it was. Relief warred with panic as he saw his houseguest's favorite henchmen.

* * *

Draco knew that Hermione would have asked questions to ensure that Nitwit I and Nitwit II were in fact, Nitwit I and Nitwit II. However, given that he didn't want to cue up any reciprocal questions from them for her, he planned to refrain. And hoped his assessment that Hermione was the brains of the operation was correct. It would have been six years of pretending for Potty and Weasel to have faked idiocy that well throughout Hogwarts.

As they approached the porch, Draco ran out and flung her arms around the red-head. He'd seen the way she watched the gangly git with rapt attention during Quidditch matches, and he'd heard the tortured screams from the dungeons while she was tortured. Say what you want about Slytherins, but we know our enemies he thought rather smugly.

"Ron, Harry! Oh my gosh…" He deftly cast a cutting charm on his leg to help tears flow, an update from the pinching-himself trick he'd done as a child to increase the attention and sweets from his parents. Weasle was patting his hair, his long fingers getting caught on small snarls and pulling at his scalp. Scarhead was hugging them both from the side and sounded like he might be crying as well.

"Let's get back inside!" Draco commanded. Bossy Hermione was never far away, he'd learned.

Weasel seemed to agree. "We've had her back for ten seconds, and she's already bossing us around!" He tousled Draco's long curls. Draco internally grimaced before deciding Hermione's hair couldn't get much more mussed anyway. Potty at least was already casting wards and herding them inside.

"How did you escape?" Potter asked before cutting Draco off before he could answer. "Merlin, Mione, I'm so sorry. How are you? We saw you with Malfoy and saw the picture in the Prophet; I swear we tried so hard to find you and get you out of there. I-"

Potter's voice broke, "I… whatever he did to you, I swear I will make him suffer for it."

Draco huffed internally. Damned Savior Boy would never believe that Draco had risked his own life to save her, treated her like a princess… Nope, just evil Draco, ready for retribution. Potter laid his hand on Draco's arm, as if reassuring himself Hermione was really there. Ron hadn't stopped stroking the unruly curls and was far closer than Draco would have ever permitted, by several meters.

"It seemed they really just wanted me to lure you out, Po-ssibly." Shit, he'd almost called him Potter!

"I played along, emphasized how terrified I was, how I didn't want to be tortured again, and they seemed pretty content to have me serve as bait." He spit the last phrase the way Hermione had told him to get out of her room.

"I will cut off every finger the ferret has for even placing his hand on you," Weasel vowed.

Draco wanted to roll his eyes. Unoriginal and evidenced the fact that Weasel's knowledge of basic facts-like wizards had 10 fingers-was beyond his grasp.

Nevertheless, Draco leaned into Ron and continued doggedly, "They tried to pump me for information of course. I fed them some information they already knew-location of the Burrow, that sort of thing. My Occlumency is good enough that when I showed them that we'd been out in the woods, away from the Order and any information about what's going on they thought I was useless. The bigots probably didn't think a Muggle-born was capable of knowing anything useful anyways."

The two boys hung on his every word as if it were gospel. He felt a little stirring of jealousy at that, then crushed the feeling without inspecting it.

"So you're okay?" Mop-head asked hopefully.

Draco took a deep breath. A piece of the truth would make this whole thing go easier. He forced a brave smile onto Hermione's face.

"Well, I… I do have some lasting effects from the Cruciatus," he admitted. "I have chunks of memory that are missing, things I can't remember sometimes. A few spells, probably some events, but it's tricky to remember what's gone."

"Wait, they let you keep your wand? And it took you this long to escape?" The ginger idiot sounded insulted.

"Anti-disapparition jinxes and Death Eaters crawling all over the place," Draco snapped back in the voice he'd heard her use on the Weasel when he said something particularly idiotic in class. This part, at least, was fun.

"How bad?" Potter asked. He looked tired now that Draco really saw him. The dark bags under his eyes matched his inky hair.

"Not terrible, and I think they're coming back slowly," Draco lied. He hoped this would buy him some lee-way in asking more questions without suspicion. He watched Potter's face closely.

"Did your crazy experimental cyanide-pill memory spell backfire?" he joked weakly.

Draco almost grinned; he knew Hermione had purposely wiped her memory! He felt strangely proud-of her for being so brilliant, and himself for recognizing it. Although he had no idea what cyanide was. It reminded him vaguely of a color his mum had once wanted to paint the parlour.

"I don't know," Draco lied again, trying to sound chagrined. "It obviously didn't succeed fully."

Potter laughed at that, earning him a baffled look from Weasel. "Only Mione would sound disappointed her memory wiping spell didn't succeed in turning her into a mindless automaton."

Weasel joined in, and Draco permitted himself to look peeved. Really? They thought her spell was a total wipe of her mind? Did they even know how brilliant her spell-casting was? She'd left herself enough that she could function but not enough to betray her friends. And these two were giggling about her supposedly botched spell.

"Memory loss from the Cruciatus is also very common, so it's impossible to tell if it's a natural side-effect or that my spell didn't work. I think the former is likely, as I don't think my spell was faulty," Draco sniffed in the swotty make-fun-of-Hermione voice he'd perfected back at school. Really, now that he thought of it, he had been preparing for this moment for years.

"Oh, come off it Mione! We're just glad you're still you. Hopefully all the missing memories are the precious few time we're jackasses?" Weasel elbowed Draco playfully.

He smiled weakly and changed tacks. They didn't seem to suspect him at all above their joy at her return.

"How are things going? Did you find it?" Draco took a major risk in hazarding their quest. But what else does one break into Gringott's for other than to find something? Surely not to socialize with goblins.

The room turned sombre again.

"No. Griphook betrayed us almost as soon as we got into Gringotts," Potter started. Draco made a polite inquiring noise.

"Shite, sorry Mione. Bill let us know that Bella had come into Gringotts in a panic and was asking questions about whether someone broke into her account… throwing out wild accusations that the goblins were colluding with the Order and that the Dark Lord would make them all suffer. She went into her vault and was apparently satisfied by what she saw there…" He trailed off dramatically.

"And?" Draco would have waited silently, unwilling to show weakness, but Hermione was impatient.

"So, we thought there is a good chance she has one of the Horcruxes there. We made a deal with Griphook that he'd help us get into her vault in exchange for the sword, but apparently bartering with goblin-made goods is a crime in their eyes so we were set upon as soon as we entered."

Draco's mind was reeling. The Order had a spy at Gringotts. And were looking for whorecruckses, whatever those were. And they were apparently important enough to try to break into Gringotts for. A fool's errand. For a moment, Draco considered berating the pair for not knowing about how goblins felt about their craftmanship-hadn't they been paying attention in History of Magic? But he didn't know enough about this Bill character to know if Hermione would have deferred to his judgement on this… or what whorecruckses were and what that meant for this story. So, he decided to fish for other information instead.

"So how many are still left?" Draco hazarded.

"Still three. And still no idea where the diadem is or what the last one is," Weasel whined.

Draco adopted Hermione's determined face again. "So we have a lot of work left to do."

* * *

They talked for hours, going over theories about the Hogwarts founders and, confusingly, what sort of baubles some bloke named Tom Riddle would find attractive. He was apparently central to these whorecruckses, whatever they were. Draco wished he could Apparate home and find out then rejoin the conversation. He was fairly pleased with this ability to contribute; Hermione wasn't the only one who read lots of books on magical history.

He'd sipped some more Polyjuice under the guise of getting drinks for all of them from the still stocked pantry. Overall, this was going much better than expected. He'd been right about Hermione's memory spell, so neither Gryffindork thought the memory loss odd, which helped explain little missteps he made, and apparently his careful attention to Hermione over the last several weeks and in school had made him an expert mimic. And so, the only hopes of the wizarding world were sitting here, spilling secrets to a disguised Draco Malfoy. He briefly contemplated stunning them and bringing them back to the Manor, but he'd seen Potter duel and didn't really want to take the risk when he was accomplishing what had been asked of him at significantly lower risk.

"Should we maybe focus more on figuring out how to defeat the D-evil incarnate rather than these horcruxes?" Draco cursed himself for almost slipping at calling the red-eyed monster the Dark Lord. He was busy berating himself mentally when he noticed his two companions had gone very still.

"Hermione," Weasel asked shakily, his wand suddenly drawn, "how did we become friends?"

Draco felt his heart go cold. He'd finally done it and said something that made them suspect. Asking if they should focus on killing the big evil git? These whorecruckses, from all he'd gathered, were definitely not weapons, so it's not like they needed those to attack him. Maybe he'd made some weird gesture? Or the Polyjuice was fading? He resisted the urge to touch his face.

"In Gryffindor," Draco said primly.

"When?" Potter barked.

"First year." Draco was getting nervous. He couldn't pull his wand without getting hexed, he was sure.

"One more chance: specifics," Ron growled.

"I don't remember," Draco babbled. Shite, shite, shite. "I told you, some of my memories were damaged while I was being tortured."

"What did you give Harry to help him with the second task for the Triwizard Tournament?"

Draco shook his head.

"What is Ron's rat's name?"

"Scabbers," he offered in relief. He knew that one.

His relief was shattered as he felt the Incarcerous hit him in the chest.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Thanks for reading and reviewing! So glad you're liking it thus far.**

**DramioneForever: Yes! He got cocky and wasn't being quite as careful as he should have been.**

**Mega700201: Thanks for reading!**

**Gabriele Kazlauskaite: Yes! Glad you liked that; it took me forever to think of something that Draco would think he would know but that would make Ron and Harry definitely know it wasn't Hermione. Figured Peter Pettigrew was big enough for that.**

House elf Apparition was nothing like wizarding Apparition he thought. Rather than squeezed, he felt sort of disjointed, as if he'd been split into many parts and pieced back together.

"Master is okay?" Mipsy squeaked at him.

Draco nodded. Relief and exhaustion hit him like a wave.

"Mipsy, draw me a bath." Draco was surprised to hear Hermione's voice come out of his mouth. The terror of the last few minutes had apparently addled his brains. He thanked Merlin and Circe and even Hermione that he'd gone in with a back-up plan. If she sensed him in danger, Mipsy would come pull him out. Never let it be said Malfoys didn't learn. The snarky thought didn't fill him with as much pleasure as it should. If he hadn't taken the idea from Dobby and co. that house elves could Apparate around wards like they were nothing, he'd be bound by Enemies I and II right now, probably being tortured for information.

Draco started to slough off his robes before he remembered-again!-that his body wasn't his own.

The thought of what he has almost done made him sit down hurriedly on his bed. He felt light-headed. Ugh, he had almost seen the Mudblood naked! He would have been naked! As Hermione! The tiny voice in the back of his head that expressed interest in that outcome-which was probably the same little traitorous voice that had thought kissing Hermione wasn't that bad-was mentally kicked into a dark dungeon cell. Which he locked. And threw the key into a river. That he then vanished. He hoped he could blame hormones for that awful little voice.

Draco pouted. He had to wait then until the Polyjuice wore off until he could relax. The universe hated him, clearly.

* * *

After a few minutes of moping, Draco had gotten bored and decided that writing out notes from his encounter with Potter and Weaslebee would be a good idea before he forgot anything. He'd learned a lot; as far as his missions went, this one was a resounding success. He had aimed to get information and information he had gotten! Sure, he'd burned a bridge in the derpy duo's faith in fake Hermione, but he wasn't sure that really mattered. It would have been nice if he could have somehow lured the two gits back to the Manor, he supposed, but then again, he hadn't really had a plan for that. Ruefully, Draco reflected that he was much better at plans that involved running away from danger than towards it.

What he'd learned: Bill worked at Gringotts and fed information to the Order. The Order thought Aunt Bella was hiding a whorecrucks there. These whorecruckses were evidently very important and seemed to often be items from the Hogwarts founders. He also heard a name - Tom Riddle - that was somehow critical to this whole mess. Some other tidbits he'd decided might or might not be useful: his disowned cousin had just given birth to a little baby boy, Molly Weasley had contracted a bad cold after leaving the Burrow and was sneezing bees for several days… Draco dutifully wrote it all down.

With that done, Draco estimated he still had about a half hour before the potion wore off. He sighed, trying to figure out what else to do. In a stroke of brilliance, he realized he had a half-hour more of access to Hermione's hated face and hair and ran over to the mirror.

He smirked at his reflection then cast a charm to dye the hair pink. A giant Pygmy Puff seemed to sit on his head, and he laughed out loud for the first time since, well, since he'd spent time with Hermione. Scowling now, he cast the teeth enlargement charm he'd cast on her years ago and laughed again awkwardly around the giant buck teeth that sprouted from his face. He tried to remember one of the spells Pansy and Daphne had been discussing in their common room to dramatically ring their eyes with kohl… he flicked his wand vaguely in the pattern he remembered and mumbled Occulolus. The results were really better than anything he could have hoped for. He'd clearly botched it and his eyes were smudged with black soot like a raccoon. Draco laughed so hard that tears ran down his face, which just caused the awful makeup to smear down his face. He'd have to remember to pull these memories out to look at later. Maybe he could even have them developed as a photograph to keep on his desk.

Making silly faces at himself in the mirror, Draco was struck again by an idea. He cast a cutting charm carefully around his pink halo of hair, the long tresses falling in hunks to the floor. Almost bald Hermione! He smirked again at his ridiculous reflection.

He was just about to change the color again when a pop announced Mipsy's arrival.

"Master Draco?" she stammered, eyes wide. "Mipsy, Mipsy did not mean to interrupt sir!"

The elf squeaked and closed her eyes. Draco felt is cheeks go very, very hot. He was, he considered, being very silly in a way that was absolutely not fitting for the heir to the noble houses of Black and Malfoy.

"Mipsy is just here to draw you a new bath because of the potion is meaning to wear off in three-two-one, now sir!" Her eyes were still closed, but Draco could feel the awkward sensation of his bones and muscles and skins rearranging back into his own shape.

"Very good, Mipsy. Carry on," he responded calmly. The brief joy he'd kindled went out faster than a candle doused by water.

* * *

After he was out of the bath, Draco reflected more on what he'd learned. He abhorred secrets. Or rather, he abhorred other people's having secrets. While he was sure he could deliver the information to the Dark Lord and get a metaphorical pat on the back for a full interim report, he was loathe to do so without knowing what it meant. What if it was bad news? He would not be rewarded for that, and he did not relish going into a meeting with madman not knowing. Really, it was better if he spent a day or two looking up this Bill, these whorecruckses, and this Tom Riddle.

And, he thought further as he passed Hermione's room on his way to the library, he needed a way to win back Hermione's trust, if not affection.

* * *

Several hours later, Draco remembered why he hated research. Bill was a bloody common name, even among potential Order sympathizers. Without access to employment logs at Gringotts, which was a tall order even for a Death Eater, that was seeming like a dead end. He found zero mention of the whorecrucks things and no mention of Tom Riddles either. He assumed the chap was long dead, probably a contemporary of the founders, given his fixation with items that had been lost for hundreds of years but his family's vast array of genealogies wasn't shedding any light on the matter. But Riddle wasn't a name her recognized. Maybe they'd died out?

He sat in front of his fireplace moodily. He hoped at least that Potty and his sidekick were panicked after their realization they'd been spilling secrets to an imposter Hermione. He doubted they had any idea it was he, although if they did, that's be a nice feather in his cap! He managed to summon half a smirk at the thought.

And then, there was the issue of Hermione. He didn't really feel like going back to the Mudblood's room and grovelling. She didn't even appreciate how he was debasing himself for her! She'd bloody flung him out of the room the last time. The time before that… had just been terrifying actually.

Really, how could you regain someone's trust when it had originally been built on fabrications and fantasies?

Breaking his reverie, a sharp rap sounded on his door. He jumped up.

"Who is it?" His wand was drawn and offensive spells were already lined up in his head.

"Me, you prat," a frustrated voice he'd been using as his own scant hours ago griped. "Let me in before I huff and puff and blow your door down."

Apparently the object of his ire wasn't content to sit and wait for him; lovely. Draco loped over to the door and opened it with a mocking bow.

"I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, your highness." His voice was clipped and bled snark. He regretted his tone as soon as he said it. He was trying to win her back, not antagonize her!

However, he was surprised to see a slight quirk at the corner of her lips as she rolled her eyes. "You're ignoring me now."

"You broke a window, a chandelier, and I presume a mirror, and then quite literally threw me out of your room," he responded drily. "I had assumed you wanted some space."

"I _want _ answers and to be able to trust you again," she huffed. "I admit, maybe, that my reactions could have given you the wrong impression, but I can't believe you'd just given up on me!"

"I didn't give up! I was biding my time! Not all of us just impulsively rush into things. I bide and plot and plan."

"Fine." Hermione stalked over to the chair Draco had been sitting in and plopped down inelegantly. She stared at the fire for a long while before adding, "I was about to gouge my eyes out reading about memory loss."

She was silent for a long while. Draco was about to go back to his desk when she whispered, "It… it looks like for cases like mine, not that there are really any quite like it, but that that…"

She stopped and stared again at the fire. Draco took a step closer when she restarted.

"They don't come back. The memories. I tried some of the diagnostics-there is some really nasty, but effective blood magic in those books, you know?-and, they all point to the same thing. The memories are gone."

Draco stepped around the chair and knelt in front of her. He saw that tears had been streaking down her face and understanding bloomed. She was still furious and scared, but she was now distraught and he was the only one she could turn to.

"May I hug you?" he asked. She looked up at him warily before nodding jerkily. He scootched next to her on the chair and enveloped her in his arms. She didn't hug him back, but she didn't lean into him and burst into a full bout of tears.

He sat there with her, stroking her hair until the fire burned down to embers.

* * *

Hermione seemed to be less _not mad _ at Draco than _too sad to be mad at all._ He wasn't sure how important the distinction was, but the fragile detente that saw him eating breakfast with him didn't do much to raise his spirits.

She moodily pushed yoghurt around it dish, causing flecks of granola to spill over the sides.

"Do you want to help me with a research problem I'm stuck on?" Draco offered impulsively.

He thought he saw a flicker of interest, before she mumbled something about not feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

"What if it was a research contest? Something to distract you from the problem at hand," he probed.

"Listening," she conceded.

"Well, the idea's pretty simple then: I'm searching for three things. One, a guy named Bill who works at Gringotts with ties to the Order. Two, information about 'whorecruckses.' And three, information on some guy named Tom Riddle. Probably pretty ancient, like Hogwarts Founders ancient."

"So, whoever gets two out of three wins? Or all three fastest?" She queried. Draco's heart leapt to see her spine uncurled and her face tear free.

"I think the latter," he mused.

"And what are we counting as 'found'? I think it should be more substantial than a mention." She had started gesticulating, and he had to suppress a shudder as her spoon launched a tiny spot of yoghurt onto the floor.

"Agreed. Let's aim for an amount of information that one could give to a Hogwarts Professor as a concise answer."

Hermione flashed him a smile she hadn't seen in days. "Brilliant. Okay, so moving on to stakes. What do I get when I win?"

Her smile had transformed into a predatory smirk. Internally, Draco grumbled. Of _course _she thought she'd win. Then again, he had only proposed this hair-brained scheme because he'd made absolutely no progress on this task at all. That tiny traitorous voice in his head whispered that this time she surely wouldn't be asking for a kiss as her reward. He needed to spent more time figuring out how to banish that voice. Too bad Hermione didn't remember that memory deletion spell she'd used on herself; that probably would have done the trick.

"Loser owes winner one non-life-threatening favor?" she suggested sweetly. Draco figured whatever the witch-who'd days previous been trying to hex him-had planned was unpleasant, but likely less unpleasant than displeasing the Dark Lord, so he acquiesced.

"Great. Then let's discuss boundaries on resources."


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Thanks for following along! I think this chapter is really fun, so I hope you all enjoy.**

**DramioneForever: I'm glad you liked the twist! **

**Guest: Yes! I figured Draco is a Slytherin so he should be good at the sneaky stuff!**

It turned out, Draco thought sullenly, that the discussion on "boundaries on research" that Hermione had insisted on had not been part of some perfectionistic streak, but rather borne out by her forward-thinking research agenda. She'd pushed to be allowed to go to off-Manor libraries by herself (or with Mipsy), which Draco had flat-out refused. They had, instead, negotiated terms by which either party could request to change research locations.

After Hermione had apparently determined that Draco's assessment of the paucity in the Malfoy library was correct (or not, she could have found something and was hiding it; she insisted on extreme secrecy in this endeavor), they had started off in the Ministry's public research library-both Polyjuiced, using the extra potion Draco'd bought from Slug and Jiggers and the hairs of unsuspecting Muggle passersby.

Draco had been shocked to see Hermione flirt with the wizard at the front desk to get more information. She'd seen him watching and cast a spell that blocked him from hearing her conversation though. Really, she was taking this was too seriously, Draco considered as he rifled through the magical card catalog. He didn't see anything under "w," so he instead went to the section of the library for "a: artefacts."

An hour or so later, Draco had come no closer to learning about whorecruckses and a smug looking Hermione asked if they could go to their next library location.

"Sure," he grumbled.

And so, that was how the last scion of the great house of Malfoy ended up at a Muggle library. Hermione had immediately scurried into the bowels of the place, sitting in front of an odd box that was lit from the inside, before scurrying even deeper into the place having requested something called "microquiche." Draco was unsure why there was food in the library, why it was tiny, or why Hermione wanted it, but he knew she wouldn't tell him anyways. So he contented himself with wandering the aisles and wondering why Hermione thought that a _Muggle library _ was a good place to research _wizarding questions. _

He tried not to flinch when Muggles passed him, bending dramatically out of the way to make sure they didn't touch. He didn't disguise his sneer as they walked and reached for the books, sometimes even standing on little footstools instead of just flicking wands. Wizarding ways really _were_ superior. Linking his hands behind his back, he stared at the titles of books. None of them looked familiar, although a few looked interesting. In the "non-fiction" section there were shelves of books on space and on something called rockets that apparently went to space (Draco seriously doubted that was _not _fiction, but it did sound interesting) and he almost broke all of the rules of every Malfoy and pulled out the book, but restrained himself.

Instead, he walked over to the strange lit-up boxes Hermione had used. He discreetly cast a quick disinfecting spell on the whole area before setting himself on the chair as she had done. She seemed to have found something useful in this box, so it was was worth a try, he supposed. It was a white cube labelled "Dell" with a slightly curved panel on the front that had a few little drawings in the corner. On the table, there was a set of little carved squares with letters on them and next to that a strange oblong object with a string coming out of it. He'd seen Hermione move it, so he copied that motion.

He almost jumped out of his chair when a little arrow on the box moved! Was this some sort of wand that wizards had set up for the Muggle to improve their lives? That did seem like the sort of thing some crazy blood traitor like Arthur Weasley would do. Or one of his million offspring…

That thought made his brain itch. Weasley… a Bill Weasley had been Head Boy years before Draco. He'd remembered sneering at the plaquard showing his name ages ago when he'd gone to look to see his mother's name (she'd been Head Girl, of course). No idea what the git had been up to since then, but he had a good feeling about this new hunch.

He moved the stringed wand around some more, making the little arrow race around the screen. He'd seen Hermione tap at the little letter blocks, which he tried to no avail. He was busy poking out his name on the letters when he felt a presence behind him.

"Having fun?" Hermione smirked.

"Yes, actually," he responded airily. "I also remembered a nugget of information that's going to lead me to get one of the three pieces of information."

"Good for you. You'll only be one behind me then," she quipped as she brushed towards the entrance.

"All this being ahead is making me starving! Shall we break for lunch?"

For a moment, Draco forgot they were trying to track down information from her unremembered best friends to deliver to a Dark Lord who probably wanted to kill him, that he and Hermione weren't friends and probably never would be, and he nodded happily.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Draco had put his foot down at Muggle food, and they'd gone back to the Manor for lunch. Hermione seemed to be in much better spirits-either because she was apparently winning or because her withered soul required books from which to feed. Draco wasn't sure of which was more likely.

Then they visited another ten libraries, Muggle and magical alike, and by the end of the day even Hermione looked a bit tired and frustrated.

"Are you going to share?" He asked when they were ensconced back in his room for dinner.

"My food? You have your own," she retorted.

Draco rolled his eyes. "The research terms, Miss Know-it-all. You said you'd gotten two. I've got one-"

"But I had it first!" she interjected.

Draco smiled, knowing he'd won this round. "But how will we know if we don't share? You could just _claim _ to have found the answer and but not really know it."

Hermione looked murderous and crossed her arms protectively over the chest.

"Fine. We'll each write out our answers and pass them to the other at the same time," she gritted out.

Draco lazily Accioed some parchment and quills, and both of them started writing. Hermione had hardened a section of air before her to form a writing surface, and Draco was too proud to copy her idea.

He had finished his short paragraph and continued eating his dinner for several long minutes when he saw Hermione reaching the end of a page.

"Merlin, Mione! I thought we agreed we were aiming for short answers," he teased.

"What did you call me?" she asked grumpily.

Draco felt the blood rushing to his face; he couldn't believe he'd copied bloody Saint Potter's nickname for Hermione.

"I was just testing out a nickname," he muttered.

"Not a fan," she sniffed, burying her nose in her parchment again. Draco wasn't sure if he was happy about that or not.

A few flicks of her quill later she offered to trade. Draco eagerly read her page. They both had agreed that Bill Weasley was the Gringotts plant; Draco had found an article about the eldest Weasley child working as a curse-breaker for the bank in the _Egyptian Oracle _at Library 7 once he'd known to look for that name; evidently the librarian Hermione had flirted with at their first stop had directed her towards the public wizarding employment records. She'd also somehow found the information that he had been bitten by a werewolf but didn't undergo full transformations. She'd also added his height, noted his marriage to Fleur Delacoeur, and listed the precise hue of his hair. Draco really wondered how she was so much better at this than him, but didn't want to give her the satisfaction of asking.

The rest of the parchment detailed Tom Riddle. A Muggle man by that name had been murdered, along with his parents, in Little Hangleton by a Morfin Gaunt (wizard). Had he not just read a paragraph that detailed Bill Weasley's hair as "persimmon," he'd have griped at Hermione for including useless information; being murdered by a wizard didn't make someone of interest. He kept reading. Many years prior to Riddle's death (which was apparently quite gruesome, if Hermione's notes were to be believed), that same Tom Riddle's name had appeared in an indictment against a Morfin and Marvolo Gaunt; the two wizards had been sentenced to Azkaban for torturing him. From the Muggle records, Hermione had found a marriage license between a Merope Gaunt and this Tom Riddle; she'd been unable to verify in the magical records the former's relation to the two men sentenced to Azkaban, but given all of these events occurred in Little Hangleton, she assumed the last name meant they were somehow related. There was a birth record for a Tom Riddle Jr. about a year after the marriage, and death certificate for Merope soon thereafter. As much as he appreciated her thoroughness and ability to find these snapshots into this Tom Riddle's life, he was starting to grow weary of reading about this man. He skimmed a bit farther, and understood why Hermione had decided _this _Tom Riddle was the correct one: he'd gone to Hogwarts and been awarded the prestigious honor of Recognition for Special Services to the School for catching a monster on school grounds that had killed a student. The last he'd been heard of he'd been employed at Borgin and Burkes.

"Which explains his interest in antiquities," Hermione finished, noticing that he'd reached the end of the page. "I think maybe he was an avid collector, which would explain why he wanted those relics from the Founders."

Draco stared at the parchment in frustration. This Tom Riddle character sounded terribly boring; the most interesting things that had happened in his life had been his crazy family murdering the rest of his family. And, he supposed, being an insufferable do-gooder and helping rid Hogwarts of murderous monsters. He glanced at the last line again. Borgin and Burkes wasn't really a do-gooder place, although maybe that had changed in the decades since that man had worked there.

"No luck on the whorecruckses?" he asked. He'd hoped one of these leads would give him insight into what Potter and company were up to, but, other than the in-retrospect obvious piece of information about the older Weasley, it all felt like dead ends.

"Why would I tell you?" Hermione sniped. "You'd just use it to get a leg up on me.'

"I've found absolutely nothing either," he confessed.

"Which is _exactly _ what you'd tell me to put me off the trail!" She sounded more enthused than angry though.

"Which weird Muggle microquiches do you want to look at tomorrow?" he drawled.

He never succeeded in getting Hermione to explain why she laughed so hard she knocked her tea over.

**AN: Microquiche, for anyone who missed what Draco meant is "microfiche;" back in the day, this is how newspapers were stored! **

**Also, in case you missed it, Draco was looking at a computer; I hope I captured his description well.**


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: Sorry this is late! We're well off-track from where this story originally went, so it sometimes takes me a bit to pull things together in a direction I'm confident off. Your comments have been so helpful and encouraging; thanks!**

**Mega70021: Thanks for reading!**

**DramioneFever: Thanks; I wasn't sure if I was being too heavy handed or too vague. I'm glad you thought it was cute!**

**SydneyN: Welcome to the story! Glad you are enjoying it so far and I really appreciate your detailed feedback. **

**AmeliaBlackwell: Yay! Thank you!**

After two more days of traipsing through libraries, Draco and Hermione agreed to work together to find information about the last item on their list. Hermione had looked a bit put out until Draco had pointed out that she had already won; now they were just jointly pursuing knowledge. Her smile at this had been positively predatory, although she'd primly informed him she would need a few days to think over what non-lethal favor she'd be calling in.

At the end of day five, Hermione finally asked the question he'd expected from her long before.

"Why do want these pieces of information if you know next to nothing about them?"

"Father had mentioned he came across some irregularities in a report at work-he works at the Ministry, you know-and asked if I could help track down some information." Draco tried to seem off-handed.

"And this report didn't detail anything else about these whorecruckses other than their relation-potentially-to Tom Riddle and his interest in relics from the Hogwarts Founders," she pressed.

"Err, no. Like I told you, there are likely six of them and they either are or are a spell on or are stored in the cup and the diadem."

"It's just a needle in a haystack then! I think I've looked through a thousand books for charms, hexes, jinxes, artefacts, or potions that even _resemble _that word. Your lot really need to work on standardized spelling," she huffed before continuing. "Nothing. Nary a mention. Is it even an English word? Maybe it just means 'shiny thing' in some lost language."

Draco nodded sullenly. He was feeling just as frustrated.

"Had your dad made any progress?" she asked.

"On what? On this?" Draco sputtered. "No, that's why he, er, handed it off. Not quite important enough for his time-writing legislation and such takes precedence you know."

In his head he added, _as does torturing Muggles, anyone who disagrees with him, and acting as a loyal sycophant to the Darkest wizard of all time. _But Hermione definitely didn't need to know that.

"I guess that makes sense. I just don't even know where to look next!"

Draco didn't respond; he didn't either, and time was running out for him to report to the Dark Lord.

* * *

That night after dinner, Draco stopped his mother. He'd exhausted all the traditional research channels he and Hermione could think of and come up with nothing. At this point, he didn't even know if their obsessive question to find out about these hoarkruxes (he'd been trying to spell the word differently in his head once Hermione had pointed out the spelling could have been wrong; he hadn't even considered it and didn't dare tell her he'd only heard it verbalized. There is only so much idiocy Hermione Granger can tolerate, and Draco was fairly sure he'd already used it up) was worthwhile. But then he'd see Potter's exhausted face and his earnest description of what they knew so far replaying in his mind. It had to be something important. Something that Potter had been able to find out.

"Mum? I have a question. A pretty embarrassing, personal one." Draco started, using his code for 'please don't tell Father' with her.

"Of course, my dearest. What's your embarrassing, personal question?"

"Have you ever heard of a Horkrux?"

The tall blonde matriarch of the Malfoy clan paused and pursed her lips.

"It rings a bell, but I can't say for sure. If I were pressed, I'd say I'd encountered it in my Ancient Studies Course. Taught by a lovely French woman, Sandrine de Fontaine; she was fired at the end of the year. Dumbledore was furious with her for some reason I never found out; he never even hired a replacement. She was ancient then, I doubt she's still alive…" she trailed off and sighed.

"I'll try to think on it more, but it's an obscure word if anything. Maybe a part of a myth?"

Draco nodded politely and thanked her, before impulsively rushing forward to hug her. This whole ordeal was slowly turning him into bloody Hufflepuff! The tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered if that was what this was, being a Hufflepuff wasn't all bad.

* * *

"Do you fancy a day trip to France?" Draco asked.

"With you? Not really," Hermione replied without looking up from her book.

"To follow a lead about the hohercruxes?"

Hermione's head snapped up. "Really? Of course! That's not a _day trip, _Draco. That's… part of our mission!"

She stood up abruptly. "When do we leave?"

A half-hour later they'd taken an (illegal and ill-begotten) international Portkey to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, just outside of Paris. Sandrine's daughter, according to the French ministry official who'd been _only too happy _to assist a Malfoy when Draco had floo called that morning, lived in a posh wizarding community that had popped up in an old Muggle castle there.

The yellow sunlight dappled the verdant, perfectly trimmed grasses outside town as they walked towards the immense, blonde stone building. Draco thought the architecture was rather new and pretentious, but he chose not to say anything to Hermione, who looked charmed and delighted by their surroundings. Really, he should be as charmed; these last days had been relative bliss-no summons from the Dark Lord, their only worry whether the next book would contain a useful nugget of information. But the stain that the reason _why _they wanted that information and the strain of keeping it all to himself… it marred the sunlit day better than than any clouds.

A short while later, they had entered the place through a side-door with strong Muggle repelling charms and walked through a decadent hallway to Suite 405, Eloise de Fontaine. Draco rapped on the door, which after a moment creaked open. A pair of brilliant, bulbous green eyes peered through the crack.

"Young Mister Malfoy, I presume?" Her voice was reedy and thin, like she had forgotten to speak but was rather breathing the words. Her vowels betrayed a thick French accent that would have put that Delacoeur's girl to shame.

"Yes, Madame de Fontaine. We appreciate so much your taking the time to talk with us," he said, bowing formally.

The door creaked farther open, allowing Draco and Hermione to enter.

"Enchantée de faire votre connaissance," Hermoine murmured when she had entered. Draco started in surprise; Granger knew French? She'd deleted all her friends, most of her experiences and managed to keep a language somewhere in that brain?

The shock must have shown on his face, because she shot him a triumphant grin as she chattered with the woman, who seemed much happier to see them now that they spoke in her mother tongue, in incomprehensible French.

"Malheureusement, mon… ami ne parle qu'anglais. We should switch back," Hermione laughed. Draco tried hard to make sure his smile didn't melt into a pout. This was _his _lead and she'd already managed to outdo him!

"Thank you, Hermione. Madame de Fontaine, my mother took a course at Hogwarts from your mother, many years ago…"

"Ah, yes, 'ogwarts. Ze place zat fired her so... so rudely. She was forced to come live with me when it happened, you know? Ze firing." The wiry woman looked like she held Draco personally responsible for this action.

"Yes, of course. Educators are so rarely valued as much as they are worth," Hermione agreed. "After your mother was forced out, they never even offered a course in ancient languages and traditions! It's egregious, really. Draco and I have been doing some independent study, but, well, we are no experts and wanted to make sure our curriculum is of high quality. Draco's mother reminisced fondly of your mother's class, so we hoped you might have some of her old course materials to help us?"

Draco hoped he masked his look of shock. Hermione Granger, happily spinning a web of lies to a woman she'd just met. And her little fiction had prettily charmed the woman, who was rifling through her bookshelf. Hermione looked incredibly smug, so he avoided making eye contact with her.

Mme. de Fontaine shuffled back over to them, holding out a sheaf of papers tied with a string.

"She burned all ze rest. I sink zese are ze… programme of study and some of ze notes. I 'ope it allows you to study it. She would 'ave been 'happy zat 'er work is appreciated."

"We can copy these and return this to you," Hermione offered, but the woman shook her head.

"Non, it was 'ard enough to prevent 'er from burning it all after she came back. She would razer two young students 'ave 'er work. Especially ones who studied under Dumbeldore. It would be an insult to him, I zink," she smiled conspiratorially at the pair.

"Thank you, Madame! We are very much looking forward to our studies," Hermione gushed.

The woman herded them towards the door and bid them goodbye before shutting the door noisily behind them.

* * *

"I found it," Hermione breathed. Her voice sounded almost awestruck.

Draco shot out of his chair. They'd been going through all the books referenced in Sandrine la Fontaine's notes. The nifty Ravenclaw spell hadn't been much of a help, given that they didn't know what a hoorkruks was to imagine it. So they'd spent the better part of two days slogging through old tomes about the batty wizards in Ancient Rome, Egypt, Mesopotamia, India, Greece… the educational standards at Hogwarts had declined if this used to be the sort of material they covered. Maybe Dumbledore had fired her for torturing students with too much reading.

"Herpo the Fowle, at the height of his power, made a _horcux_ using the Darkest of magicks in an attempt to ensure his immortality. Current scholars disagree as to the methods he used to make a horcrux, but the commonly held belief is that he used an event of great magical power to cleave a portion of his soul and then, using rituals scholars have heavily debated (see T.N. Copeari's treatise on _Fowlest Magicks _and S. Slughorn's volume on _The History of the Quest for Eternal Youth_) attached the soul fragment to this object," Hermione read aloud. Draco felt his breath founder in his lungs. An artifact that made someone immortal? Artifacts that made _the Dark Lord _immortal. That is why they sought these horcruxes; that is why when he'd referenced focusing on killing the monster instead of focusing on horcruxes the daft duo seen through his disguise! He felt his thoughts click into place like the tumblers of a lock under a well cast Alohomora.

The Dark Lord had horcruxes. Plural.

He was invincible, several times over.

The daft duo was chasing after items to make him killable.

Hermione kept reading, her features squished into a moue of distaste, "The efficacy of his horcrux remains unclear. Herpo lived, by some accounts, to the ripe age of 207 and by others 346.9. He descended into what contemporaries described as 'full-blown, underwear-on-head, snake-skins as clothing, speaking only made-up languages' levels of insanity. Despite his infirmity, or perhaps because of it, he made a number of advancements in the Dark Arts, namely the breeding of the first Basilisk and the publication of the first Parseltongue dictionary.

"Some sources rumor it was his Basilisk which eventually killed him, although, like his time of death, this is unsubstantiated."

Draco barely heard the rest of what she read. The insane part fit, if they were looking to symptomatology. Obsession with snakes too. Really, the Dark Lord had perhaps gone a bit far in his homage to old Herpo.

Immortal. Somehow, the thought of the Dark Lord living forever was far worse than the horrors Draco endured. He thought of the pressure from his father to please their master, the way it had poisoned Draco's childhood and nearly killed him several times over. He imagined being forced to enact such a legacy on his son, and his son on his grandson… for every generation for all of time.

"Draco." Hermione had the audacity to snap her fingers in front of his face to break him from his reverie. "You still in there?"

"Just contemplating the implications of terribly dark wizards having the capacity to live forever," he snipped back.

"I _asked _whether you thought this Tom Riddle was implicated in trying to make horcruxes. Or hunt them. Maybe that Borgin shop was a front for this?" she mused.

"I'm pretty sure the wizard making horcruxes isn't a half-blood orphan named Tom Riddle who won a commendation for saving others at school. Your theory about his hunting them might be right… but he just disappeared off the face of the planet, right?"

She nodded. "So, we're done?"

She sounded vaguely disappointed. Draco agreed with the sentiment: the whole world was done.


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Thanks for following along thus far! I've been battling a little bit of writer's block figuring out how to navigate these next couple of chapters, but I think I've got them all sorted now, and I'm really excited to share Draco and Hermione's journey with all of you. **

**SydneyN: You'll see very soon!**

**PGoodrichboggs: Thanks! No spoilers :D**

**Mega700201: Thanks!**

**DramioneForever: Yes! Hermione is super brilliant and you'll find out very soon what she's been up to!**

To say Draco slept poorly that night would have been the understatement of the century. He wasn't sure if the images his sleeping or waking mind conjured were worse. Hermione had gone to bed with a novel and a glint in her eye that made him think she was up to something, but he hadn't had enough energy to care. The world was over anyways; it just hadn't quite gotten the message yet. Boy Wonderkin and Side-kick were still fighting against a man-a being?-who Draco now realized was possibly the most powerful Dark wizard of all time. He'd said those words, heck he'd bragged about it to his fellow Slytherins… but he hadn't believed it. Deep in his heart, Draco now realized, he'd seen the Dark Lord as another Grindlewald-truly terrible but ultimately fallible.

This new reality, he didn't know how to face.

Draco laid bed, ignoring the tray Mipsy had set next to his bed. The ceiling was charmed to show famous Quidditch matches, tiny players darting around in predetermined paths that highlighted the critical strategic decisions. Watching the hoard of tiny players flit across the ceiling used to fascinate him, keeping him up at night to the point his mother had threatened removing the charm if he didn't get to bed. He usually kept it off, the moving figures providing irritation rather than interest nowadays. But he'd been too sentimental to replace it.

Now, the figures seemed trapped in their endless loops. He empathised; each player set on his track, no decisions, no choices. For the losers, they would play out failed plays, missed catches for all eternity. For the winners… he supposed that might be a bit better. Life on a fixed track might be horrible, but wouldn't it be better to at least be winning?

The voice in his head he usually thought of as his rational-side-although, he chuckled darkly to himself, really who could think of themselves as rational as they categorized the different voices that inhabited their head?-whispered about how surely the Dark Lord would triumph. He was immortal! The one chance their world had had to be rid of him had been Baby Scarhead, and even that had failed because the man was immortal. The Order could strike him down a thousand times and he'd rise back up, a perverse phoenix. The wizards and witches surrounding the immortal madman… they were not people Draco wanted to cross, much less battle.

He glared at the figures on his ceiling anew. Maybe their predetermined patterns were a blessing. No responsibility. Bliss in following, in obeying. If he could carry out his task, show the same fervor as his Aunt, follow his set path, life would be maybe not so bad. The Purebloods would reign supreme. Maybe he'd marry the blonde, Nordic Quidditch player he'd invented in his head as the antithesis of his invented fiancee. Maybe things would settle into not the relative peace and normality of the past, but something he could live with.

He'd been right the information Potter had provided was crucial, he'd just had no idea how much so. He wanted to scream, tear out his hair. He suddenly had the impulse to stomp his feet and rage at the unfairness of it all. He wanted to be free of this situation. To reset. Be the bloody child he was supposed to be!

His thoughts wandered over well-trod paths. He could run, start new lives overseas, never think of war again. Except when he felt the burning of his Dark Mark… He'd never really be free. Always running, looking behind him. His thoughts skipped to Hermione. He'd always he dogged by guilt at her death then too. Unless he brought her with them. Ugh. Life on the run _with_ a Mudblood-possibly the only thing he could think of that would be worse than life on the run. And none of that would stop the world from burning around them as they ran.

Really, his only salvation lay in Potter's winning… and the brain of Potter's operation was off frittering her time, reading novels, unaware the world was crumbling without her.

He plopped his head back against his pillow and hoped sleep would reclaim him.

But the Dark Lord had other plans for his morning, as Mipsy informed him with an apologetic squeak what felt like seconds after he had lain down; his Wretchedness (Draco's words, not hers) wanted an update on his progress on what Potter was up to.

As his dragonhide boots padded the manor's hallways, Draco determined he'd tell the immortal what he'd learned. Straightforward. He'd pick the winning side-as all surviving Malfoys did-and ensure himself a future. Maybe he'd even keep Granger as some sort of servant to assuage his guilt. He felt a sort of peace pass over him as he made up his mind.

Too soon, always too soon, he was walking into the ballroom. Looking at the monstrous man before him with his new knowledge, Draco could practically see the frayed edges of his soul where murder and Dark Magic had torn chunks away to ensure his eternal life in the shadows dancing across his bone chair in the candlelight. He blinked and chastised himself for his overactive imagination.

"My Lord," Draco bowed deeply. For once, he was coming to the Dark Lord having succeeded in his task.

He'd infiltrated the Order and gotten information on what Potter was up to. Moreover, the information was important and new. He might even be rewarded for his performance. Although, given the rewards Bella seemed to hoard-opportunities to torture and maim alongside her idol-maybe he'd best not request anything other than a metaphorical pat on the back.

"I trust you have not disappointed me, Young Malfoy," the man stated briskly.

Draco's heart sank. He knew that tone; that tone meant things weren't going well and he was impatient for news that would either turn events around or news that he could torture one of his followers for failure. The way his knobbly wand twitched in his hand made Draco think he'd actually prefer the latter.

"I live to try to please you," Draco murmured, bowing lower. "I do have news to report from my assignment."

The pale man flicked his fingers by way of acknowledgment. Draco swallowed around the lump in his throat, feeling suddenly unsure of himself.

"I made contact with Potter and Weasley and was able to interrogate them as to their current activities-"

"You went with the Mudblood? And failed to bring them to me?"

Draco swore the man's eyes glowed like coals in dying fire.

"I, err, no your Lordship. Despite her enthusiasm, the Mudblood has no memory of her former friends or of the intricacies of interrogation. In light of our urgency, I Polyjuiced myself to lure Potter and Weasley out in order to obtain information from them. They are sloppy, my Lord, so they did not check for identifying information, and I was able to ask them many questions about their current efforts."

He felt the tendrils of the creature before him enter his mind. Careful not to react, Draco offered memories of Potter hugging him, of them sitting and talking. He previewed the memory of wands drawn on him, letting the memory of his terror flood his brain by way of explanation for why he'd brought back only information, not heads.

Draco felt the tendrils recede and he choked back a sign of relief.

"And what delightful tidbits did you learn, Young Malfoy?"

"The Order has a plant at Gringotts-from my research, I'm pretty sure it's Bill Weasley, your lordship."

The Dark Lord snapped his fingers and a man Draco had once categorized as "unimportant lackey" scurried in, eyes bowed so dramatically Draco wondered he didn't tumble over. He scurried back out seconds later with instructions to set up an ambush on this Bill outside Gringotts the following morning.

Draco felt his chest puff up a tiny bit and felt hope trickle in like a fresh spring. He'd provided useful information already with the smallest thing he'd learned!

"Potter and Weasley were focused on researching some man named Tom Riddle-"

Draco was cut off my an unearthly roar that came from the Dark Lord who was suddenly before him, wand held to Draco's throat.

"Tom Riddle?" The question was whispered but laced with poison.

"Some nobody wizard, completely fallen off the records. He seems to be a do-gooder sort, sire-won an award from Hogwarts for 'service to the school' and hadn't been mentioned since," the scorn Draco wished he could imbue into his voice manifested instead as his voice cracking in terror.

Suddenly, the Dark Lord laughed, an odd aspirated huff, like the fat pug's Pansy's family kept when they got too excited. Draco blinked and his master was again seated, lounging carelessly as if he'd never moved. Draco felt wetness run down his leg but did not dare to move his wand to clean up the evidence of his terror.

"And?" the mad man prompted. He had a fake smile on his face that made Draco think of a shark.

What had prompted that? Draco's mind whirred. Potter had been right; Riddle was somehow important, important enough that the mere mention of his name had nearly gotten him killed! Whatever he and Hermione had found hadn't been the full story, he was now sure.

Draco's desire to be appreciated, to be rewarded evaporated. He just wanted to walk out of this room alive. A man who'd been ready to kill him for knowing the name of some worthless, missing antiquities trader surely wouldn't allow him to have information about his own immortality! His revelation about horcruxes would stay safe inside his own Occlumency walls.

"And… they think he's an antiquities trader. They're searching for Gryffindor's sword; Dumbledore left them hints about how it possessed special powers against darkness, and they're all convinced that Potter is somehow the heir who's meant to wield it," Draco babbled in as controlled a voice as he could muster. The lies dripped from his mouth like a wand-tip after casting Aguamenti. He wondered if he even knew how to tell the truth anymore.

The Cruciatus that hit him-for his failure to capture Potter when he'd seen him-barely registered. _He'd lied to the Dark Lord. He'd lied to the Dark Lord. He'd lied..._

The Dark Lord smiled smugly as Draco sank to the floor, his nerves fried from pain, and dismissed Draco with a casual reminder that he needed Potter's head by the solstice.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: Thanks for reading and for all of your reactions to the last couple of chapters! It's really gratifying to hear that the drama of Voldemort's interview with Draco lived up to expectations. **

**SydneyN: Agreed! This story would probably be wrapping up right about now if so.**

**Pgoodrichboggs: Thanks!**

**Mega700201: Thanks for reading and reviewing!**

**DramioneForever: Agreed! It also means Voldemort now has way more information about what the Order is doing than he did in the books...**

Draco wouldn't say he'd betrayed the Dark Lord, exactly. He'd merely lied by omission. And, well, a little bit of actual lies. Had he, despite his best efforts, somehow chosen a side? And the side that was surely going to lose? He couldn't quite summon any panic at the thought; his body was still in shock after his ordeal over the blasted Riddle character.

More information. He needed more information somehow. But how? He and Hermione had barely figured out what horcruxes were and had truly hit a dead end on this Tom Riddle (Draco was really starting to hate this guy!) character in their library searches.

He thought about asking Hermione, but quickly decided against it. He already owed her a non-lethal favor.

Wait! His thoughts snagged on a memory like a fishhook in fine cloth (the reason he had this point of comparison had earned him several _days _without sweets as a small child, he reflected ruefully). Potter and Weasle had wanted something out of his Aunt's vault. They had thought she had one of the horcruxes there.

He wasn't sure what he'd learn, but it was a lead. And the only one he currently had.

* * *

It hadn't been hard to find his Aunt - she seemed to lurk around the manor like a pest-removal-charm immune vermin.

It hadn't been hard to convince her to let him follow her around and "help" her with her tasks for the day-she loved criticizing her only nephew's form casting Unforgivable curses and apparently her day to day tasks involved terrorizing Snatchers and other low-lifes.

It then hadn't been hard to drop hints throughout the day about cursed jewelry and the beauty of old magic, how useful some of the items in family vaults might be to their Noble Cause.

In summary, after a thoroughly unpleasant day in which he'd cast more Cruciatus curses than he cared to count, he found himself accompanying his aunt-whose hair really was more horrid even than the Mudblood's now that he'd seen the amount of blood she let get crusted in it-to the bank.

* * *

Draco felt himself practically buzzing with nerves as they strode into Gringotts. He was glad of years of training in schooling his features to a haughty mask as his Aunt demanded access to her vault then sat whining about what the cart was going to do to her hair as they descended into the bowels of the bank. Seriously, as if wind would make it _worse_.

He felt as if they'd scarcely begun when the ancient goblin was bowing in front of the enormous, black diamond encrusted door.

After making gestures that might have been to smooth her hair, his aunt wove her wand in a complicated series of motions and the door crumbled to dust, revealing a huge cavern piled with heaps of trinkets, chests, and books. Most of it was covered with thick, sticky cobwebs. Draco found himself shocked; the Malfoy vaults were clean and well organized, so it was _possible_. Who treated riches with such disdain when one had magic to keep it tidy?

"Baby Acromantulas help keep thieves away," she cooed as a huge tarantula scuttled across the doorway, away from the sudden light. "Mummy used to breed them before she was married. Stasis on the vault means they only grow while it's opened, so they don't get hungry, and if thieves _do _break in…" She grinned happily at Draco, who managed to nod.

She made Hagrid's penchant for awful creatures seem tame and cute by comparison. And that big oaf had nearly let a Hippogriff eat him!

She scowled at her hoard of web-infested chests and shelves. "Mummy's spiders never quite got the thick, glossy coat or somesuch drivel she was aiming for. I always asked if she could make them have bigger fangs or more potent poison, but no. Oh! My favorite dolly!"

His aunt darted to the side and hoisted a blonde, porcelain doll whose eyes popped open at Bella's touch out of a nest of cobwebs. The shuffling at the edges of the room sounded apologetic, as if they understood her rebuke of their creator. Draco vaguely recalled that oaf Hagrid telling them how smart Acromantula were; he'd dismissed it as the half-giant's demented fondness for dangerous creatures, but maybe he'd been right for once. Then again, he was here, with his mad aunt, interpreting scuffling noises as apologetic, so who was he to judge?

The doll cooed softly and snuggled into Bella's arms. She rocked it tenderly and then laughed, a wild, bone-chilling sound. The picture looked so strange that Draco wondered if he was dreaming. He really couldn't imagine a less maternal figure than his Aunt.

"She slowly sucks the soul out of young girls who play with her! Reckon she's gotten about seventeen or eighteen at this point. I've been meaning to bring her out to play."

She tucked the doll under her arm as she strode over to a large, dark wood cabinet.

Draco's world-briefly akilter seeing Aunt Bella coo at a doll-snapped firmly back into place. Killer, soul-sucking doll. Of course.

"Come, Draco, help me pick out a pretty bauble to wear to dinner," she crooned. He walked behind her and dutifully asked questions about different pieces and feigned interest in their bloody histories. He surreptitiously glanced around trying to spot a horcrux. He cursed himself for not thinking this through. He didn't know what it looked like, other than Potter's vague guesses that they might be linked to Hogwart's founders.

Well, he'd already lied to the Dark Lord about something that was apparently pretty important, and he owed said lizard-faced tyrant his classmate's head in a week and he was already in this vermin infested Gringotts Vault...

Praying to any deity willing to listen, Draco steeled himself and quickly cast the Imperius curse on his aunt, thankful that the goblins didn't much care what the wizards did _in _their vaults. His aunt's wild eyes went slack, while he swore her creepy doll looked at him reproachfully. He shuddered.

"Take me to the horcrux," he whispered. She didn't move. Draco checked the mental bond he held over her-it was functional. She must not know what a horcrux is, he realized.

"Take me to the… Ravenclaw's diadem," he hazarded.

"Take me to something Salazar Slytherin owned."

Still nothing. Dammit. He spent long seconds feeling the sweat bead down his back, hearing only the sinister rustling of the Acromantulas in the shadows.

"Take me to the item the Dark Lord had you hide," he ventured at last. This time, she lurched into action. She followed her as the clumsily forged a path through the Black family treasures.

Straight to the door.

Draco swore and tried again. "Take me to the item you were worried Potter stole." Again towards the exit. "Take me to the most important item that's been in this vault." This time, Draco realized the item was gone. Of course she'd moved it. That must have been why she didn't hesitate to have him come here; there was nothing worth stealing here! He wanted to throw something, preferably that weird doll that still stared at him.

He wanted to sink down to the floor and cry. The spidery shuffling sounds seemed to move closer. Well, not _this _floor. That thought shook him from his reverie.

Time for damage control. "Go back to the chest and put on that silver ring," he commanded. He cast a heating charm on it and a mild Confundus on his aunt as he released the Imperius. He'd gotten well practiced as that particular combination of spells to get him out of trouble with Carrows.

He then strode over to her, pulling the ring off her finger.

"Aunt Bella? Aunt Bella?" he asked, his voice dripping with panic. "Are you okay?"

With all the tension he felt, it wasn't hard to make his hand shake as he dropped the ring back where it came from.

She shook her head, her eyes slowly focusing before grinning that lopsided grin. "Nasty ring took me out for a second there, didn't it!" She cooed at the piece of silver.

"We'll take you home and see what else you do!" She picked up a few other rings, an enormous pendant, and a bracelet that looked rather like a medieval manacle.

"I'm bored. Grab anything else that looks interesting and we can experiment with prisoners tonight!" Her giddy voice sounded more like she'd offered him ice cream than to test dark objects on the emaciated set living in his family's dungeons. Draco gallantly offered her his arm, to avoid her pinching his cheek, his head spinning as he tried to decide where she would have moved the horcrux to.

If that had been what was in her vault at all.

* * *

Grouchy from his failure and feeling a little ill after seeing the effects of some of those _baubles _from her vault (really, he could have gone without seeing what happened when one's skin was removed by a cursed ring, and he wished he could forget the sound of screams that accompanied a curse that turned each hair individually into a stinging ant), Draco wanted nothing more than to sleep.

The staccato knocks at his door seemed to preclude that for him. He opened the door brusquely, ready to tell off the bushy haired horror who haughtily brushed past him and settled into his fireside armchair with posture fit for a queen. Draco sullenly shut the door and took his time calling Mipsy for refreshments, taking pleasure at her less-than-subtle fidgeting. Seriously, she thought she could out-pretentious, out-wait a Slytherin?

His smirked was wiped from his face when she started speaking.

"I want to cash in my favor."


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: In case anyone's been wondering what Hermione's been up to... read on!**

**DramioneForever: He's clever! I'm curious of what you think about this next chapter and Hermione's actions in it.**

**SydneyN: Thanks! I love writing him!**

**Mega700201: Thanks!**

**pgoodrichboggs: Thank you! You get your question answered here!**

Could this day get any worse?

Draco scowled at her, "Right now? At-" He dramatically checked the clock on the mantle. "8 o'clock."

He supposed it really wasn't that late, but it'd been a shite day.

Hermione glared at him.

"Yes, now. I've been going through the Malfoy library's old editions of the Daily Prophet, and I've decided my favor is an hour of your time answering questions."

She paused dramatically, and Draco had just started thinking that that seemed like a really dumb favor and like a promise for a later night than he'd hoped for when her last words sunk into his brain a moment after she spoken them.

"Under Veritaserum."

Draco breathed a sigh of relief - he was a skilled Occlumens and Veritaserum was difficult, but not impossible to fight in a similar way to how he kept the Dark Lord at bay. He'd offer half-truths and pieces of it without the tongue-loosening candor the potion had on the undefended.

"Done," he said as he felt a tendril of magic encircle him.

Lovely, apparently his magic had interpreted that as a mild vow. He should start keeping a list of all the ways the universe was stacked against him today lest he forget and start thinking any power cared about him at all.

Hermione smirked, "Great. Zibby?"

The house elf popped into the room with two elaborate hot chocolates and then popped away with a grotesque curtsy.

Hermione continued the over-the-top gestures, uncorking a small vial full of slightly pink liquid.

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Veritaserum is colorless, Gra-, granted I've never brewed it myself. Are you sure you aren't poisoning me?" he drawled. To Hermione. Not Granger. Salazar this day was getting to him.

"I swear that this is a truth potion, not a poison," she quipped back as the liquid plopped into his drink.

Draco raised the drink in a mocking salute and daintily sipped it. Hermione sat silently, waiting for him to finish.

"Where did you get the Veritaserum?" he asked, hoping to run his time out.

She rolled her eyes. "Your potion room. Terribly warded. I found a mostly finished batch last week and kept it stewing in my room until it was done. Oh, also, I suppose I should mention that I used a modified recipe-one I found in your libraries. Bit of blood magic so the user can't use Occlumency to get around questions."

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. The moment he lost putting the mug down to draw his wand was the moment Hermione needed to cast an Expelliarmus and leave him defenseless.

He berated himself for not paying attention to what Hermione had been up to while he thought she'd been frittering away time reading a novel!

"What's your end game after this, Granger? One hour of questioning and then I just forgive this horrible trespass in the name of a bargain?" Draco spat.

Hermione's horrid brows darted together. "I suppose that depends on what I learn during our little… chat. What is my name?"

"Hermione Granger."

"Are you really my fiancee?"

"No."

The word spilled out effortlessly, damning him. He schooled his face into impassivity; she couldn't take that from him.

Hermione nodded, as if she had suspected as much. The edges of her mouth curled down slightly though. Was she disappointed?

"What is my relationship with Harry Potter?"

"Best friend."

She looked surprised at that. He wondered what she'd been reading in the bloody Prophet-oh! Those articles speculating she was chasing Potter romantically, the love triangle with him and Krum. He almost cracked a smile at the memory of how much all of Slytherin had loved that! Zabini had made the first years create a dramatic rendition of the whole situation, complete with props and costumes in the common room... simpler times, he reflected ruefully.

"What is _your_ relationship with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"I serve him. I'm a Death Eater." Draco couldn't help the bit of sneer that twisted his face at that admission.

"What does He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named want?"

"Ultimate power over the wizarding world. To eradicate Muggles and Mudbloods."

He was gratified to see her flinch even as he watched her categorize this new information into her brain.

"Why is my memory gone?"

"You were being tortured for information by my Aunt Bellatrix and you triggered a self-designed, experimental memory-wipe charm on yourself to prevent yourself from revealing secrets."

He would have enjoyed watching the blood drain from _her_ face at that answer if he weren't so bloody screwed by this whole situation. Only five minutes had passed, and his only option at the end of this was probably going to be to kill her. Once he got his wand back. He wouldn't mind that quite as much given his current situation.

"Where are my parents?"

"No idea. Not at their house."

"Are they alive?"

"To my knowledge."

He drawled the last piece, hoping to let her know how little he cared about that particular truth. Hermione forged on, while Draco started imagining how he was going to torture her after this was done. Maybe he'd ask his aunt to borrow some of those baubles they'd tested. The ant one wasn't lethal, just horribly painful, apparently. Avada would be too fast for her…

"Why am I here?"

"I didn't want you to die. So, I claimed I could use your memory loss to turn you to our side. I wanted to save you."

Hermione spluttered a little. "You, you just wanted to save me? Why didn't you just let me go?"

The vile potion at least let him laugh. "And get myself immediately killed? I've failed enough tasks that getting you out alive was the most I could do. The likelihood I make it out of any of this-even before this lovely little _interlude _we're having is near zero."

"Why fiancee?"

"It meant I could protect you-that I'd be the one caring for you, not some Death Eater really bent on twisting you into a weapon. And… after your being tortured, being treated as your life meant nothing, it seemed _right_ somehow that you were important."

Draco was sure his own face registered the shock he felt at revealing such an intimate secret. His own secret, his own shame. Hermione's face contorted in a way he didn't understand.

"Are you loyal to the Dark Lord?" she asked after a moment.

"No."

His eyes darted to the Dark Mark hidden under his robe sleeves. Oh Salazar he hoped that the Dark Lord wasn't somehow listening through it somehow. He hadn't instantly immolated at least. His heart still beat in his chest as if it were going to somehow break free.

"What do you mean 'no'?" His new enemy wore that same perplexed look he'd promised himself he'd treasure forever the first time he'd seen it. He sneered.

"Torturing classmates, watching the world burn… being tortured after failing to complete impossible tasks. Not really my cup of tea, really. I hated your type just as much as anyone… but not enough to kill for it."

Draco could feel tears welling. He wondered if his soul was as tattered as the Dark Lord's. He'd tried to do one good thing, saving his classmate… and here she was, investigating him under a modified Veritaserum from his own family libraries. Modified with blood magic. He'd have to figure out later where she'd gotten his blood from. No good deed goes unpunished, apparently.

"Were we friends?"

He thought back to how he'd taunted her in school, how he'd hoped the monster from the Chamber of Secrets would kill her. How he'd thought about her muddy blood, about how she flaunted having nothing better to do than memorize textbooks. How she slummed around with Potty and Weaslebee.

"No."

He thought then about the Transfiguration contests they'd had, how she'd smiled at him when he'd proposed to her in the garden, before she'd screamed. How he almost could feel his heart bleeding as she fell to the ground, like a princess in a fairy tale. How he'd thought of her as he slaved away under Snape to save her. He thought about her halo of curls popping out behind a book's cover. How she'd navigated the libraries of Britain with ease of a mermaid in water. He thought about how they'd played Dare or Truth, how she'd wanted to kiss him. How his presence when she was scared had obviously comforted her.

"We weren't friends in school. I truly hated you. But here, here we were friends," his traitorous tongue amended.

Draco thought her eyes looked a little glassy now.

"Why don't you just turn against He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named if you aren't loyal to him?" she asked suddenly. She had leaned forward, her eyes filled with that energy he now associated with 'I have an idea.'

"Because he's immortal. He has horcruxes. That's what that whole _ordeal_ was about. Going against him is a death sentence. They're hidden and the only lead I had on them was wrong."

Predictably, she grilled him about the horcruxes-what he'd learned in Bella's vault, what he'd heard from Potter. She asked him about her cursed engagement ring; he noticed she wasn't wearing it now. Draco felt less angry and more ashamed as he heard the words spill from his traitorous lips. He babbled about how afraid he'd been she'd die, how afraid he'd been he would die. He revealed how his words about the ring had been true-how he'd known she'd love it, how he'd picked it with care. He babbled, bleeding the thoughts he'd kept so carefully tucked away from the world, from himself in some cases out to a bushy-haired freak who he'd likely duel to the death-hopefully hers-once this was done. He was so pathetic, so scared, so ineffectual the few times he had a coherent plan. And now all of this was laid bare before bloody muddy Hermione Granger, who looked so maddeningly _interested._

"Is there any way for me to get out of here alive?"

"Without my help? No. The Manor is better guarded than Azkaban at this point."

"With your help?" she pressed.

"Until the Dark Lord chased both of us down and killed us. Slowly and painfully."

"Would you turn against him if you thought you could win?"

"Yes."

Draco realized he said that last word without the tongue-loosening effects of the Veritaserum.

He automatically reached for his wand, before remembering the only reason he'd sat through this ordeal was that he was unarmed versus a very well trained witch.

She had hers drawn, leveled unflichingly at his chest.

"Then let's talk about a way to win," she offered.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Thank you all so much for reading thus far! Sorry I'm a few days late posting. Enjoy!**

**Raven-maiden3: Thanks! I'm glad you're enjoying Draco's POV and that the story is staying interesting! **

**Madaboutyoubaby: Thanks for bingeing and sharing your thoughts on all these chapters. I hope you continue to enjoy!**

**Alannalove1990: I'm glad you are finding this to be a fresh take on Draco rescuing Hermione! Thanks!**

**DramioneForever: Thank you! Hermione's taking control was one of my major rewrites between drafts and I am so much happier with it! I am glad you liked it.**

**Mega700201: Thanks!**

**SydneyN: Yes! Never underestimate Hermione. I felt bad for Draco when I wrote his thoughts about her off reading a novel... hehe.**

**Pgoodrichboggs: Thanks! I'm glad you liked the Veritaserum; it seems like something someone would have tinkered with and perfected.**

"You're insane, you know that, right?" Draco scoffed.

The witch in front of him had drugged him, made him spill his darkest secrets, and then had the gall to think he'd work _with _her on a suicide mission. He felt raw the way a shrivelfig must feel after the sloppy hands of first years had hacked off its rind-bruised, exposed, not entirely whole. Hermione knew far too much and there were too many risks in this whole plan to start with. He himself knew far too much… Maybe he should just Obliviate both of them and start from scratch.

He realized her hand was shaking as it held the wand out at him, and a tiny part of him that had become habituated to being Fiancee Draco wanted to cross the space between them and scoop her in his arms and cradle her until she calmed down. He wished he had a Whomping Willow to crush that unwanted thought, but he made do with a mental boot heel.

"_I'm_ insane because I started looking for more information to supplement the facts I was getting from someone who already had a history of omitting facts when I have no memory of my own? _I'm _insane because when I found those supplementary facts didn't really jibe with the stories you'd told me I decided to get the truth?"

Draco could tell she was gathering steam for a full out rant-her hair had doubled in frizz in the last few seconds alone.

Now. Now was the time to lunge across the space between them, use the element of surprise to grab his wand, to jinx her, stun her, Obliviate her. Anything to neutralize her until he figured out how to get out of this mess alive. He could always stun her and bring her to a public place to lure Potter out for the Dark Lord. Ugh, or something. He needed time to think.

Despite himself, he let her continue. Lunging across a drawn wand was a bit more Gryffindor than his instincts would allow.

"Maybe drugging you wasn't the most _noble_ way to go about things Mr. King of Slytherin and all things sneaky, but as you _clearly_ have experienced, you do shitty things when your life is on the line! So I needed to know what was going on and where you stood."

"And _from_ that conversation, you really thought I was a good candidate to try to recruit for your noble cause of goodness and sunshine? I now know why Ravenclaw didn't want you."

"Clearly I was wrong. I _thought _that the Draco I spent time with these past weeks seemed on the whole pretty decent and that the answers I got from you just now sounded a lot more like a teenager forced between a rock and hard place than an evil henchman bent on world destruction."

She paused before offering, "Do Legilimency on me again. See what I see of you."

She lowered her wand, her whole hand vibrating-in fear, he realized, cringing. She realized he could well take this moment to kill her or to subdue her. Worse, he'd not only considered it, he'd planned it only moments ago. And she trusted him enough to offer him the opportunity. She thought there was enough of a chance he wouldn't hurt her to lower her wand against him to offer his back.

That awful slithery guilty feeling made a strange cocktail with the burst of hope that blossomed somewhere in his gut.

"I don't want to wade through your disgustingly organized mind again, Granger," he sneered.

She kept her wand lowered but looked like he'd kicked her. The guilty feeling grew until he was sure it was probably leaking out his pores.

"Just… talk me through this plan you have that involves the Dark Lord not winning. If you can convince me we have a greater chance of victory than a Longbottom does of not peeing his pants in Snape's class, I won't Obliviate you and continue on my wicked way."

She opened her mouth, probably to inquire about Longbottom and Snape who he knew very well she didn't remember, before she snapped it shut and held out her hand stiffly.

"Deal."

Draco had scarcely started to lift his hand when a loud pop announced Zibby's arrival, bowing at such an absurdly low angle that her long nose brushed the floor.

"Master Malfoy wants to see Young Master Malfoy," she wheeezed in the staccato tones of official business.

"Now?" Hermione asked, her hand hovering awkwardly in the air.

"Yes, Young Master's Lady Friend!"

Zibby bowed even lower and Draco swore he saw her nose bend against the floor. Maybe she used magic to fix it after mashing it against the floor each day. Or maybe elf noses were just really flexible?

"Are you going?"

Hermione's clipped voice snapped him from his reveries. Zibby had already gone and Hermione's hand was now again holding his wand protectively, her own still pointed at him, albeit slightly less aggressively.

"Yes, as much as I love being held at wand point by my former fake fiancee, I rather think his coming to fetch me here would put both of us in a rather worse position." Draco felt the day's events and the information his poor, overloaded brain was trying to process would make him dizzy.

She wordlessly handed him his wand, keeping hers firmly trained on him.

"We'll continue this conversation later?" she probed. There was an edge to her voice-the same he'd heard when faced with failure in class (usually at Snape's hands, to be fair) or when she'd discovered her memory loss was likely permanent.

Draco nodded as he accepted the wand. He did her the honor of not drawing it on her as he turned his back to her-despite the fact that doing so turned his guts an icy cold-and stalked out to see his father.

* * *

Draco rapped on the door to his father's office, his face back in its blankest mask. The heavy door swung open soundlessly, an expensive combination of spellwork and goblin craftsmanship. His father was seated behind his desk, like a minister receiving an aide, not like a father receiving his son. Or so Draco assumed from the way hugs and hair ruffles and kisses were thrown about like they meant nothing at King's Cross by families less austere than the Malfoys. He'd never known any different.

"Son, I have heard an _unpleasant _rumor. Several unpleasant rumors. Would you care to explain yourself?"

_Several_ unpleasant rumors. Other than his fake dalliance with a Mudblood, Draco's racing thoughts couldn't uncover anything that would make his father particularly angry. He'd gone to a Muggle library, but he was both quite sure he'd covered his tracks well on that and that it had been a reasonable sacrifice to make in service of the Dark Lord's task. The Veritaserum? If his father had heard Hermione had grabbed it… Hermione would probably be here, being slowly tortured in front of him.

"My actions have been steadfast in accomplishing the task set before me by the Dark Lord," he offered smoothly. Never incriminate yourself was Malfoy family rule number two, right after family first.

A muscle under his father' eye twitched, the only signal that he was really and truly furious. Draco cringed inwardly.

"I have heard that you provided the Dark Lord with information that greatly displeased him. That made him worried, and, in what we'd call for a lesser man, paranoid. However, despite this, you were still given until the solstice to procure Potter-a difficult task to be sure, but an extreme honor. I have heard that despite the nearness of the solstice and the _critical_ importance of your task for yourself, for your family, and for our cause, that yesterday you frittered away your time with your Aunt Bella playing with Snatchers and prisoners.

"At first, I was sure this was a part of your work, but to be safe, I checked with Zibby as to your actions over the past several weeks. And was informed that you'd been wasting your time in _libraries_."

He held up a his hand to prevent his son from defending himself. Draco snapped his mouth shut to prevent it hanging open like some dumb Gryffindor presented with a problem that required more than two brain cells.

"I worry I may not have provided enough guidance to you in this process, my son. We are fighting a _war_, not doing a school project. You have been honored with an important task, and, at your mother's behest, I let you take the reins. But I would have hoped that after your assignment and your failure sixth year that you would now know when to ask for reinforcements, when your strategies aren't working."

Draco mutely visualized himself hexing his father, telling him exactly what he'd gone through sixth year-how he'd _succeeded _in getting Death Eaters into the most heavily guarded place in wizarding Britain. How he'd had Dumbledore disarmed! The greatest wizard of their age. Draco rather thought his failure hadn't been in reinforcements or in planning, but in his own construction, his own morality. He envisioned his father, penitent, his perfectly coiffed hair splayed around him in disorder, as Draco's boot smeared mud on his chest, his eyes wide with fear seeing his son's wand-his son who'd fought his own headmaster and won while still in school-trained on him.

He visualized all this with an abstract, unmet need as he calmly responded, "Indeed, father. How would you recommend I proceed?"

His father nodded along; he'd given the _proper _answer_. _He hadn't admitted wrong-doing but had deferred to his father's judgement. As a good son should. As Draco always did.

"I will help you in your task. Potter has been eluding us for months, so we cannot rely on half-baked efforts at the last moment. How is Hermione's training coming along?"

Draco thought of Hermione, upstairs and in possession of more of the truth than he'd like about both the Death Eaters and about himself. He thought of the other hours in the past week she hadn't been with him and about what else she could have been planning, reading, brewing.

"It's going excellently. She is ready to serve our cause, although her lack of memories of Potter and the Order make her utility as a spy quite limited."

His father again made a dismissive gesture with his hand, "No matter. I'd rather more envisioned sending her into battle with Muggles or dangling her over a lake full of Inferi. Something to really get the Order's attention and to draw them out."

"Convince them she's betrayed them?" Draco offered.

"Quite, although the fact that she has no memory hamstrings us a bit with respect to pulling that off. No matter, many options. Bring her here tomorrow and we can all discuss a way forward."

His father's tone never faltered, never revealed the gauntlet he was throwing down for his son. _Prove to me all you've said is true. I don't believe you, and I don't believe in you, but I'm too much of a coward to tell you that to your face. _

Draco bowed respectfully and sprinted back to Hermione the moment his footfalls were out of earshot.

* * *

"Let's hear this brilliant plan you have. And if not something that will achieve victory in, oh, the next ten hours, I'm out, because my father's stepping in and taking control of this little operation. We're meeting with him tomorrow and _you're_ an avid supporter of the cause and if I have to Imperius you to get us there, so help me I will."

Draco found himself in a similar position to the one he'd left an hour earlier, except that both he and Hermione were now standing and he had a wand as well. And he had just revealed to her rather more information than he would have preferred, but in his fear and frustration, the words had seemed to leak out. His having a wand was quite an improvement from his perspective really, all things considered though. Aside from the massive pile of shite his father was adding to this mess. Unless of course he just went along with it, let his father take over and let the Dark Lord win. His father who'd failed to capture Potter at the Ministry two years ago. Ugh. Everyone was both impossibly imbecilic and impossibly powerful at the same time.

"Tell me what happened and I'll tell you my ideas," she offered, seeming significantly less perturbed than he felt.

He obliged, filling in her in on his conversation and coloring out the details she didn't yet know about his attempts sixth year to kill the headmaster and his father's attempts fifth year to capture Potter.

Draco then stared at the color-coded timeline Hermione had handed him. It looked less like a timeline than it did a treatise, on which an overachieving rainbow had vomited on. To be fair, that had less to do with Hermione's timetabling abilities than it did with the ridiculous number of tasks they needed to accomplish in a very short period of time - they had to figure out how to find and destroy some unknown number of very well hidden horcruxes, kill a Dark Lord, and defeat his enemy of ruthless Death Eaters before said Dark Lord noticed and / or by the solstice deadline, which was only ten days away at this point.

All paths were hopeless. Even working with Hermione, who flinched when he moved quickly and sometimes paused before she spoke as if weighing how her words could be used against her, had lost the carefree charm of previous weeks. After spending so much time with a Hermione who not only didn't hate him but fancied herself capable of loving him, being faced with one who mistrusted him was jarring.

"If you lot win all this, I'll just end up in Azkaban for my prior crimes and watch you sail into the sunset with Boy Wonder and Side-ginger," he accused, tossing the schedule aside.

"What?"

"I'm just expressing my lack of confidence in your lot welcoming me with open arms. This still looks an awful lot like certain death with a slight chance of certain scorn and imprisonment. And it does nothing to deal with my Father."

Hermione stared at him intently. Her stare unnerved him. He'd been expecting a heated retort that she was a Gryffindor and full of trustworthy goodness and all that tripe. The stupid voice in his brain wished she'd continue of that vein, talk about how sure she was he could be redeemed, how she wanted to be there for him, to help him. He hated that voice.

"That seems fair. I can't say I have a lot of confidence that this won't end with your Obliviating me or killing me either. I just… I _hope_. That's really at the base of it. If your current lot wins, I die no matter what, right? So I have to fight and to hope. And while I don't trust you very much right now, I do _hope_ that you'll join me in this fight."

"Why not just try to escape and get to Potter and company flat out? Why risk involving me?"

"One: you did save my life, so I do owe you a life debt. I take those debts seriously. Two: while I am aware I am quite clever and capable, I have no recollection of who these people are or how to contact them. I have thought through multiple iterations of how to contact them and convince them I'm me, but especially after your stunt with Polyjuice, I think they'll be wary of putting themselves into the open for me. And three: we have the element of surprise. We are currently in headquarters. We have inside information! I don't know what position we were in before, but I imagine it wasn't great if it ended with my being captured and tortured in your home. And four: from what I know of us, we're both quite brilliant and I think we can figure out quite a bit more than most people would be able to. Including solutions to the wrench your father has thrown into this mess."

She'd never have the natural command and charisma of Potter, or the cool confidence of someone like Pansy, but there was something about her logic, her faith, and her carefully counted list of reasons that Draco found a little captivating.


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: Thanks all for the feedback and going on this adventure with Draco and Hermione! Seeing over 100 reviews is so exciting for me!**

**Guest: Agreed. Lucius is not to be underestimated. **

**DramioneForever: I'm glad you like Draco and Hermione's relationship so far; I really wanted to portray that in a believable way! **

**Pgoodrichboggs: Can't make things too easy for our favorite duo!**

**University Bound 2019: Thanks!**

**Mega700201: Thanks for reviewing!**

**Madaboutyoubaby: Hahaha. Glad you enjoyed.**

**SydneyN: Yes! I was excited to have classic Hermione really come into her own in this chapter.**

"Do you have a Time Turner?" Hermione asked a few hours later.

They'd been talking in circles. There was too much to do, without needing to appease Draco's father. And appeasing the coward was _definitely_ something they needed to do.

"How do you even _know _about those?" he sneered.

Draco felt that if anyone were to look in his mind right now, all they would see is a burned out candle wick, blackened, spent, and worthless. A large part of him wasn't even sure why he bothered having this conversation with the Mudblood. Maybe the conversation would tire her out so when they dueled in the morning he could take a complacent, Imperiused frizzy-haired horror to his father? The smaller, irksome part of his voice was trying to whisper something about her words of faith and hope and inside knowledge that had sounded so wonderful hours ago and so trite at midnight.

"I had one third year so I could take multiple classes offered at the same time," she responded primly.

The tiniest quirk at the corner of her mouth betrayed that she knew how impressive this was. Good. At least Miss Uppity-Know-It-All still had the sense to try to impress someone as obviously impressive as Draco Malfoy.

"You… had one of the rarest, most heavily regulated artifacts to take more classes," Draco drawled slowly so she'd catch how ridiculous that sounded.

"Yes, I did. From _your_ telling, I probably used it for something extracurricular as well if that assuages your ire at its being wasted on my swottiness," she quipped.

Draco snickered; apparently even Mudbloods were funny when you were strung so tight you felt you might explode at any moment from all the stress.

"Well, your lot basically destroyed all of them when you battled the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries."

Hermione gave him a scathing look. "And _your_ lot, who are _so_ law abiding-that they battled _children _inside the Ministry of Magic, I might add-would never ever have one lying about?"

Draco opened his mouth to make a witty comeback when he realized she was probably right. He'd be shocked if the Malfoys didn't have at least one illegal Time-Turner stashed away somewhere. Or the Notts. Or the Parkinsons. One of the old families would definitely have one carefully tucked next to their healthy stacks of illegal portkeys and safe-houses.

"We could probably get a Time-Turner," Draco mused slowly.

He almost smiled seeing the way Hermione came alive as he said it, a marionette whose wizard has started bespelling it again. The subtle changes in expression that indicated her brain was whirring, processing, creating, destroying… She scribbled furiously on her parchment for a few minutes then slid the piece of paper over towards him.

For a long moment, her diagram meant nothing. Arrows, times, places… Oh. He pulled his face closer to the parchment to see it closer, coming dangerously close to mimicking Zibby's brush with the floor. She was right. A Time-Turner really would change everything.

"Let's go find a Time-Turner," he amended.

* * *

A tiny, insane bubble of hope had filled Draco when he saw Hermione's plan. With a Time-Turner and the element of surprise… things really did seem different than they had a few hours before. Moreover, with Hermione's clever brain and newfound lack of scruples towards blood-magic, really, what was standing in their way? As much as he tried to pop those insidious bubbles with reason and past experience, they kept suffusing through him.

"Do you think we can trust any of the house elves?" Hermione asked, breaking his internal bubble battle.

Draco pondered for a moment. Zibby was _his_ house elf, so his word should supercede his father's even though he was the head of the household.

"Ninety percent sure," he finally responded.

"Zibby," Hermione greeted when the house elf popped into the room. "I have a very special favor to ask you, if you wouldn't mind. We're looking for a Time-Turner." Hermione waved her wand and produced an image of one in the air. "Have you seen one?" The little elf shook her head so violently that Draco worried her spindly neck might snap. "Would you mind looking around for one?" Hermione rattled off a long list of spells that Time-Turners were imbued with to help the house elf find it. Zibby nodded with equal fervor.

"And Zibby, I know this might sound strange, but if anyone asks what you're doing, tell them you're looking for Draco's Quidditch stuff. This is a secret project just among you, me, and Draco, okay? Staying unseen is probably the best bet."

Zibby's little chest was so puffed with pride at her new, secret tasks that she almost stumbled backwards from her odd posture. Hermione thanked the elf just before she popped away violently.

"Why is my Quidditch gear supposedly missing? Wouldn't she just find it in the games' closet?" Draco asked.

Hermione's eyes flicked away from him, which he would have ready as guilt, had she not smirked at the same time.

"I may have cast a quick, long distance Incendio to make the story a bit more believable," she muttered.

Draco opened his mouth to berate her but then remembered it only mattered if they survived long enough for him to ever play Quidditch again. He'd add this to his list of grievances if they won.

* * *

While Zibby was off searching the Manor, Hermione sat at her desk working on spells; she'd muttered something about 'insurance against multiple instantiations' and waved him away. Draco had been charged with discretely contacting his classmates whose families he thought might be harboring an illegal Time-Turner. He'd have to Floo call the Slytherin common room. It was odd to think of them all there, in school. It seemed like a parallel universe, so far removed from the hell of this real one.

"I'd better do this in my room," he announced, thinking of the swaggering, Slytherin Prince persona he'd need to adopt for these interactions.

"Secrets already?" Hermione sounded exasperated.

"Always, love," he said winking at her. Settling into his schoolboy bravado took less effort than he felt it should have, given the things he'd seen and done since he'd last set foot in Hogwarts.

Hermione's face looked pinched.

"Is there a compelling reason I can't hear these conversations?"

Draco was about to give a snappy response when he realized Hermione looked practically ill at the thought. Of course. She had just given him a cauldron-load of good ideas for how to bring down the Dark Lord; if he wanted to bring all of those to the Mad Man he'd be well on his way to ensuring the Dark Lord's eternal reign.

She was afraid.

"Never let it be said I never did anything for you," he muttered as he instead grabbed the Floo powder from above her mantle piece.

Hermione didn't respond, but he saw her shoulders lower a fraction of an inch. He smiled inwardly at his newfound, clearly natural ability to be a great ally.

"Don't interrupt the call though," he warned before he threw the green powder into the fire.

Moments later, Draco's disembodied head floated in the fireplace of the Slytherin common room. He had ordered everyone out in the same quiet, drawled tones his father used when he wanted action. Once upon a time, his father's voice had been one of the the most important in the wizarding world, a voice that meant power and leadership. Seeing how far he'd fallen, kowtowing to a man who'd ripped his soul to shreds… The fact that the common room cleared, except for Draco's friend Theo did little to assuage the hot shame that ran through him.

"Malfoy, you've deigned to honor us with your presence! To what do we owe the honor?"

Theo had settled in front of the fire, casually setting wards to keep prying eyes and ears at bay. Draco almost grinned as he noticed some of the traps his friend had put for disobedience. He wondered how many snakes would have "rat" etched in boils down their leg. His almost-grin faltered as he realized Theo had copied Hermione's spell she'd used to hex that Ravenclaw-Edgebrush? Whatever.

"Missed you terribly, could barely sleep."

Theo's mouth curved into a wry grin, "Likewise."

The old friends bantered for a bit, testing their wits on each other. Theo informed him the Carrows were still on their torture-student rampage and that the second-tier Gryffindorks-Longbottom, Weaslette-were leading the resistance. Nobly and perhaps futilely, but it kept things interesting. And thus far, non-fatal.

Idly, Draco wondered what Hermione thought of the one side of the conversation she could hear. The persona he adopted… would she like this side of him more or less than the fake fiance he had been? He mentally shooed that thought to the back of his mind; hopefully he'd soon forget he'd ever had it. She probably cared more about the intel than his character anyway.

"So what do you want, Malfoy?"

Theo was grinning, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed his worry. The Slytherin didn't want to get dragged into Death Eater business for as long as he could avoid it. And Draco Malfoy only called for one reason these days.

"Looking for a Time Turner."

The boy in front of him looked thoughtful for a few moments.

"Ask Zabini. And don't mention his mum. At all," he finally offered.

Zabini? Draco had thought little could shock him these days, but that had not been the name he expected Theo to mention. The Notts themselves had been high on his list for illegal Time Turner hoarders. The Parkinsons even… really anyone except the impoverished (in both brains and Galleons) Goyles and Crabbes would have ranked above Zabini for having such a rare, illegal artifact. The Zabini's were notoriously neutral, too busy being cultured and beautiful. Draco remembered the first time he'd seen Mrs. Zabini… he'd been almost hypnotized by her ethereal looks and enchanting laugh.

"Could you be a dear and fetch him?" Draco cooed.

Theo laughed and made him promise to always think of him, before winking and disappearing. Salazar, despite the Carrows and the torture and the looming war… he missed being at school with his friends. In contrast to his current predicament, it seemed so carefree.

What felt like eons later-Hermione had kindly cast a cushioning charm for his knees when she saw him wiggling in discomfort-the chiseled features of one Blaise Zabini appeared. He looked distinctly less thrilled to see Draco than Theo had.

After quick pleasantries, Blaise cut to the chase.

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

"Time Turner. Happen to have one lying around?"

Blaise's nostrils flared out, his telltale flag for his temper, but he made no move to answer for what felt-again-like an interminable period.

"Maybe. Why do you want one?"

"Personal business," Draco drawled. He hoped his read on the Zabini family loyalties were correct and that this conversation wouldn't be relayed to the Dark Lord minutes later.

Blaise, whose features had been composed in an emotionless mask, suddenly locked eyes with Draco. It was unnerving, but years of Malfoy instruction prevented Draco from reacting.

"What are you willing to trade for it, if I had such a thing," Blaise whispered.

Draco felt as if he were walking along his broom, hundreds of meters in the air. One false step and he'd plummet to the ground. But he was so close. Blaise was negotiating.

Draco thought back to every game of wizards chess, every bet, every transaction he'd made with the vain Italian. For a Slytherin, he was a relatively straight-forward, taking offense at low offers or cheap ploys. Bloody Gryffindor, except with a modicum of tact. Draco would offer him what he thought it was worth-no more, no less.

"A favor."

Blaise raised a perfectly coiffed eyebrow. Draco knew what he'd offered and raised one in mockery. A favor, without limits in scope, in timing. A very dangerous (for Draco), but powerful (for Blaise) offer.

"And your promise you'll never mention the origins of said item," Blaise pressed.

"Do- how many hours does it go back?"

Draco mentally cursed himself for nearly agreeing to a deal without getting all the details. His father, if he knew about this, would be disappointed in his performance at every level.

"Four."

"When do you need it back?"

"La mia bella mamma doesn't have a husband at the moment, so a few weeks should be fine," Blaise smirked.

"Done."

Draco reached his hand through the Floo to shake the extended arm of his former dorm-mate. They'd have access to a Time Turner. A Time Turner that, Blaise had just (in a most Slytherin way), admitted his mother used to establish her alibis when her rich husbands inevitably met their ends. Draco wondered how much of this Theo knew or suspected.

"I can send for it via owl, unless that sort of magic will trip the wards," Blaise offered.

Draco mentally calculated how long it would take an owl to fly between the Zabini estates in Italy and his own. Far too long.

"Send it with one of your elves to the Drunk Druid in Exeter. We'll meet it there to collect in the morning. 10."

Blaise nodded as Draco winced at how much information he'd given away. That he was working on a personal project, and that it was Malfoy Senior unapproved-why else not send it straight to the Manor?

"Pleasure doing business with you."

"Likewise," Draco drawled, ready to be done with all of this.

He scuttled out of the fireplace in as dignified a way as possible. He envied the full sized fireplace in his father's office for just this purpose.

"Time Turner secured; we pick it up in the morning," he updated the witch who was looking at him more earnestly than any Slytherin would ever be caught dead looking.

"Great," she smiled. "We can call off Zibby and start planning how we're going to handle that meeting with your father."


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: For all of your who are worrying that I originally said 24 chapters and we're at 20 without a resolution in sight... be not afraid, due to the divergence of my original plan and the current story, I think we're in for a few more chapters! I don't want to shortchange this story! **

**Guest: He's definitely suspicious!**

**Pgoodrichboggs, Mega700201: Thanks!**

**University Bound 2019, Gabriele Kazlauskaite: Thank you! I was really pleased with that and I think it makes a lot of sense for how she got out of seven dead husbands without suspicion!**

**SydneyN: Thanks! Dramione + Lucius will be the next couple of chapters for sure.**

**Madaboutyoubaby: Haha, I'll take that as a compliment!**

**DramioneForever: Thank you! You know what they say about the best laid plans though...**

Buttery sunlight streamed through the windows in Hermione's room and made Draco, snuggled into the cosy armchair sipping a strong cup of coffee, feel nothing so much like a kneazel in its favorite spot. Across the room, Mipsy was balanced precariously on a footstool, lovingly and carefully coiffing Hermione's hair into something that didn't resemble a weaver's nest. Hopefully. Her eyes were closed; a casual observer might mistakenly think she was enjoying the elf's ministrations, but Draco knew better-she was rehearsing the role she'd adopt later with his father.

They'd stayed up for several more hours covering the curses and information Draco would have been feeding Hermione. She seemed constitutionally unable to cast a killing curse, even on an insect, but was a natural with the Imperious. She could cast a decent Cruciatus if Draco goaded her into it, so they'd try to steer clear of that if at all possible. Her strength really lay in the obscure curses and potions she had picked up while plotting against him and researching her own malady; with some of the information she knew, it wouldn't be hard to convince his father he'd been training her in all sorts of Dark Arts.

Getting her to memorize the boilerplate about the Order, that had been easy. She'd read it enough in the papers, and her mind was a goblin-made safe when it came to information.

But right now, in his sunbeam with his coffee, watching his… friend get her hair done, he felt peaceful, albeit more like he was in a dream than in reality. He hated that a peaceful morning felt surreal rather than natural. The scared part of him that desperately wanted to survive wanted to call out to her, quiz her on their story again, but a large, mulish part of him just wanted to enjoy this moment a while longer. Founders knew she was probably putting herself through better paces than Draco ever could.

He too closed his eyes and pretended all was well.

* * *

All too soon, Draco was plucked from his silly fantasy, and he and Hermione were knocking on the door to his father's office. Hermione looked demurely at the floor, the very picture of timidity. She was dressed in the most proper robes Mipsy could find; Mipsy took her role as arbiter of proper wizarding etiquette apparel quite seriously and had nearly gotten in a shouting match with his fashion-disaster of an ally on more than one occasion. He'd have to treasure the image of the Gryffindor shouting across the room at a diminutive elf about the necessity of under-robe corsets. Clip one of her ill-fated SPEW pins to the picture even.

All too soon, his father answered and ushered them into his office.

All too soon, they were being offered tea, the first test of how well Draco had trained her.

All too soon, his father was asking more and more direct questions about their relationship, about the state of the wizarding world.

"Mister Malfoy, it has been so troubling to learn of the turmoil and lawlessness in the country! I fear even that your son has been shielding me from the worst of it," she cast a loving look at Draco and squeezed his hand. He had to admit she was better than most Slytherin's at this.

"He's been trying to make sure the information about the Order attacks don't impede my recovery. But I do realize how serious their terroristic efforts to upend this world, this world that has been so kind to accept me despite the danger my Muggle family poses to our secrecy, threatens all of us."

His father looked thoughtful. Draco hoped she hadn't laid it on too thick.

"Draco had informed me that your memory loss is very severe. Do you remember nothing of your classmates?" He hissed the last word, making his disapproval of those students clear.

"Little, sir. Draco has told me that I was in the same house as Mr. Potter, the flag-bearer of the Order, and that we were friendly prior to my engagement to your son. I was shocked to hear I had been duped into being an acquaintance by a member of that organization, but I assume such people must be master dissemblers so as to recruit allies. I do hope that you will not hold such an association again me!"

Hermione looked genuinely panicked at the thought of her future in-law's negative opinion of her. This. This is why he had risked his life to save hers. She was truly one of a kind.

"Well, Miss Granger, I have to say that those associations do not engender much faith, but I will take you at your word. For now," Lucius responded sternly.

He clearly hoped to keep her on edge, wanting her to be willing to take risks to prove herself. Salazar, his father was a manipulative bastard. His head hurt a bit thinking through who knew what about whom-his father thought Draco and himself were manipulating Hermione; Hermione and Draco knew that Lucius thought that but really they were manipulating the old man… He was sure this interaction wasn't endearing his father to his friend. Not that he cared. It had been many years since an interaction with his father had been endearing to anyone.

"However, Miss Granger, your… unsavory contacts may serve us well at the moment. We have been trying to contact Mr. Potter, as we believe he plays a key role in maintaining morale among the Order. Would you be amenable to helping us apprehend him?"

Draco almost laughed as Hermione jumped at the chance to prove herself. The fervor of her answering in class, agreeing to help a Death Eater. It was too incongruous. Those thoughts stayed locked deep in his mind though. He'd have a veritable treasure-load of material to mock her with if they survived this.

"Good then, I shall assess your proficiency with a wand this afternoon. You are both dismissed."

Hermione curtsied prettily, words of appreciation on her lips before Draco swept her out of the odious room.

* * *

Draco didn't like that his father would test Hermione. It smelled to him of deceit… his father's or his father's suspicion of his own. But there was little he could do besides go along with it.

More pressing matters awaited them though. At the moment, they had an urgent date with a Zabini family house elf, who hopefully held the treasure to turn the tide in this infernal war. If it didn't… Draco's mind sputtered and went no further along that train of thought.

"It went okay?" Hermione asked asked as she gripped his arm to Side-Along with him.

His stomach flipped as if he'd turned a hundred Wronski Feints even before the unpleasantness of the Apparition. Should he lie? What did okay even mean anymore?

"It went as well as could be expected. He's suspicious or has some other plan, this the test this afternoon. I… can't pretend that that is a good outcome for us."

He subconsciously gripped her arm tighter as he thought of the cosy pub he'd told Blaise to send the elf too. The stretched and smeared sensation of the Apparition did nothing for his queasiness. He almost wished the loony blond Ravenclaw were still in the dungeons so she could tell him the persistent feeling in his gut was just Morgles or Bandersnatches or whatever other absurd creature shed dreamt up that day. He vaguely hoped her disappearance during the Great Escape had led to her staying alive. She and her father hadn't been important enough for anyone to determine what had happened to them, and he'd only just remembered her now.

Hermione continued to cling to his arm as she surveyed the quiet dirt road they stood on. Ahead of them, surrounded by lawns of heathery green was a small stone cottage that puffed fluffy white smoke out the chimney like something out of a story book. Nothing but rolling hills and trees to see for miles around the famous wizarding pub.

Draco suddenly felt very exposed out here. Every day danger lurked at every turn; why had he brought them to a foreign place-he hadn't been here in years!-with no wards, no backup. He started to spin, to check behind them but was stopped by Hermione's arm, still locked on his.

"Are you all right?" She huffed.

"Fine," he grumbled, his pulse still racing.

It was three to ten. They couldn't just stand here looking suspicious!

Fortunately, at that moment, a loud pop heralded the arrival of a shriveled frog-like creature with enormous flapping ears and bulbous eyes. Draco thought the cloth wrapped around it like a toga might have once been an Italian flag, but it was hard to tell for sure.

"Delivery for Young Master Ponce-face," the elf stated regally, proferring a box to Draco.

Hermione snorted, earning her a glare from the elf. Draco had to admit, it was comical. He'd have to heckle Blaise later for that. Or prank him back. That thought sobered him. He hoped he'd make it through this to a day he could worry about schoolboy pranks again.

He grabbed the box and peeked inside. Looked like a Time Turner, although he'd only seen them in books. He handed the box to Hermione while he instructed the elf to go back to its Master. Hermione nodded at him after inspecting the contents himself.

Wordlessly, they walked into the tiny cottage and were seated by the friendly proprietress who looked every bit as ancient as when Draco had been there years prior. They ordered, ate, and paid. Draco's mind flitted between the conversation with his father, just minutes ago, and the upcoming test. Obtaining the Time Turner had gone well, almost without a hitch. The trained pessimism this war had ingrained in him screamed that this foretold ill for later.

* * *

Their first Time Turn would be a test. While Draco had worked on obtaining a Time Turner, Hermione had been creating small beads that would alert them of how close they were to a different instantiation of themselves so they could keep their distance. She'd explained something about Geiger counters and proximity that he hadn't fully grasped, but the beads vibrated like crazy when they were close to each other and not at all when far apart. The danger with using Time Turners was crossing paths with your other self, Hermione had sternly explained; the fabric of space time was weaker in the folds created by the Time Turner and having two copies of a person across that fold encounter themselves could create a tear or a paradox with disastrous consequences.

They hoped their obsessive planning would keep their time dopplegangers away from each other, but this was another fail-safe for that.

There was no use saving their world from the Dark Lord if they destroyed their world through improper Time Turner usage, Hermione had impressed upon him.

In these four hours, one copy of themselves would do the set-up and planning that they had just done, while the other set rigged Extendable Ears and a monitoring system Hermione had developed into Draco's room. Draco was glad he didn't have to explain away the embarrassment of having purchased Weasley products to Hermione. Just because he hated the red-headed brood didn't mean he and the rest of his House didn't avail themselves of the tools at hand. The Ears in particular were a huge hit in a house known for sneaking.

Thinking back to the timeline, Draco found himself getting confused already. They had _just_ finished several hours of preparation after returning from lunch and were now going to go back four hours to set up monitoring equipment, leaving their current and soon to be past selves finalizing the preparations for using the Time Turners. Hermione had made sure they were leaving Draco's room at precisely 11:02 so that when they turned the devices at 15:02, they'd arrive there and not on their own laps in Hermione's room.

"You ready?" Hermione asked as she looped the long chain over his neck.

He nodded and watched as she spun the little hour glass carefully four times.

In a dizzying blur, the world shifted and morphed around him, squeezing by in a blurry mess. He blinked and he was standing with Hermione in the bathroom next to his room. Seconds later they heard their own footsteps leave the room, just as Hermione had planned. The stones in their pockets slowly stopped vibrating as their past selves moved farther away. Again, everything was going so smoothly. It was unnerving.

"I'll work on set-up here and you go set the Extendable Ears?"

Draco gulped and nodded. It made more sense for him to set the little spying devices around the Manor since he was much more familiar with both it and with which areas the Death Eaters were likely to frequent. Hermione was braver than he though, he thought ruefully as he felt tendrils of panic unfurl in his belly.

"Do you want me to cast the muffling charm for your feet?" she asked gently. Draco nodded again. She cast it, as well as a Disillusionment Charm, if the unsettling feeling of an egg sliding over his head was any indication.

"Hermione, if something goes wrong, and I don't come back, please know I really am sorry...and please take care of my mother."

Hermione nodded firmly before casting a Silencio on him too. "In case you stub your toe, you won't yell out." He nodded before realizing she couldn't really see him with the Disillusionment.

When Draco re-appeared an hour later, he saw no one in the room. His stomach lurched, thinking she'd been caught or that they'd already torn a whole in the time-space or whatever she'd called it before he remembered that she was going to set up an illusion in case anyone popped in on them. He hurried deeper into the room before finding Hermione tinkering with a small army of quills, parchment, and the creepy, fleshy ends of the Extendable Ears. He creeped behind her and whispered 'boo' into her ear. Or rather, he tried; he'd forgotten the Silencio.

She still shrieked when she felt his breath on her ear, and the next moment, he found himself frozen with her quickly cast Impediment. Seeing no-one there, Hermione quickly realized what had happened and set about removing the silencing and Disillusionment charms as well as allowing him to move again.

"I can't believe you're being so juvenile right now," she hissed as he reappeared.

"I can't believe you hexed me!" he hissed back.

She ignored him and continued fiddling with her set-up. She'd set up Quick-Quotes Quills next to each Ear, surrounded by a small bubble so that the quills wouldn't pick up the sound from the adjacent ears.

"I've been adding alerts to each one, so we know to listen if certain words are said. I've got them set for 'hide', 'guards,' 'My Lord,' and 'Potter.' What am I missing?"

Draco thought for a moment. They needed to find the locations of the remaining Horcruxes and hopefully what they'd learn from the Extendable Ears would lead them to the dark artifacts. They needed to contact Potter and co. as well to learn how to destroy them. "I suppose we should also set it for 'retrieve' in case he's moving them, and maybe also 'Bellatrix' as her conversations are likely important as well. Perhaps our names also, so we at least have a heads up if we're being moved against?"

Hermione nodded and quickly whispered the suggested words over her wand. Small lights flashed above each quill before fading. Draco assumed that meant it had worked, seeing as Hermione then turned to him.

"Anything else interesting on your walk?"

He shook his head and glanced at the clock. Three more hours before they caught up with themselves and three and half before Hermione's test with Lucius.


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: This chapter is possibly the most intense I've written... enjoy?**

**Mega700201: Thanks!**

**University Bound 2019: Lucius is a Slytherin for a reason. But don't underestimate our Hermione either!**

**Guest: Thank you! I am planning to continue with weekly updates.**

**SydneyN: Good instincts! I am curious what you think of this chapter!**

**DramioneForever: I don't think anyone should be calm about interactions with Lucius; he is dangerous and clever. **

**Madaboutyoubaby: Yes, Lucius is a scary guy. I'm glad you are enjoying!**

Those hours had flown by as they tweaked the monitoring spells and ironed out the bugs in it. Each of them had covertly sneaked to different parts of castle and tested the coded words to ensure they were recording correctly. Draco had needed to move several to better pick up voices, but in the end the twenty Ears seemed to do a decent job of capturing what was going on in the castle and recording it. It wasn't perfect; one of the quills had an unfortunate propensity to write in sonnets, for example (which they had eventually decided didn't matter all that much, since the information was still recorded) but overall it was functional.

They strengthened the misdirection and hiding spells on their set-up with fifteen minutes to spare for their meeting with Draco's father. A tiny part of Draco, a part he thought had long since withered and died, wished his father's offer of help was actually that rather than an additional obstacle for him to overcome.

"After this we need to figure out how to contact Potter and if they have any leads on other Horcruxes and how to destroy them," Hermione started.

"Please don't focus on that right now," Draco chastised. "Please, please just get through this interaction with my father with both of us alive."

She opened her mouth to argue-he could tell by the tilt of her chin-so he cut her off, "You underestimate him. I know him, and he is suspicious of your loyalties and your utility. We need him to think our working together is the best use of your time; if you're trussed up in a dungeon or being dangled over a lake of Inferi as a lure, all the Time Turners in the world won't help us."

"I know that!" she snapped.

She didn't resume talking about their next steps though, which allowed Draco to breathe as much a sigh of relief as he was going to get.

Five minutes. He offered his arm. She daintily laid her hand on it, and they walked towards their meeting with the Malfoy patriarch.

* * *

Lucius had summoned them to the training room, a large room that had been bespelled to morph into a variety of landscapes and training scenarios for dueling practice. The walls were goblin-charmed to absorb excess spell-fire to preserve the rest of the historic home. It hadn't seen much use in recent years; the Dark Lord was more of a train-by-attacking-Muggles sort rather than a, well, trainer.

"Let us begin," the blond patrician offered. "Draco, you can sit in the observation box."

Draco nodded and walked over the enclosed glass area where a display of tea was already set out. Because of course he'd want something as banal as tea as his future hung in the balance. He stepped into the greenhouse-like area. The glass was similarly magically shielded so instructors (or spectators) could watch without risk of harm. Draco didn't dare expose them to more risk by defying his father, but he hated to be another few steps away from being able to intervene. He mollified himself by imagining, over and over the three steps it would take for him to exit the box and start casting. He hoped his father wouldn't notice he held his tea left-handed to remove the additional barrier of snatching his wand.

"Let us start with a simple duel. Stinging hexes and protection charms only."

Hermione looked comically small facing off with his father. The man had a full head of height on her and, while not a broad man, dwarfed her in bulk as well. She stood as proudly tall as him though, Draco thought with a touch of pride himself.

They both bowed and his father formally counted them in, although he shot off a hex on "two." Hermione hadn't shielded and narrowly missed it by jumping away. Her eyes narrowed at the treachery; she was getting the measure of his father quickly it would seem. She shot several hexes back after building a strong protection sphere. They traded shots for a few minutes, each taking stock of the other's casting speed and style.

Suddenly Lucius darted forward and started firing the hexes at a blistering rate. Hermione's shield shattered under the impact. One hex hit her hem, producing a small sizzle. She recast a weaker shield and started firing her own stingers back, but Lucius kept slinging them in an unending volley.

Draco frowned. His father was a champion duelist. What was he trying to learn or prove by testing her this way? Or was Draco being tested-would he intervene?

Hermione suddenly stood on her toes and dragged her wand through the air in a huge arc that ended with her crouched. A massive shield bubble encased her. Draco watched with interest as she started feeding power into it. The bubble grew slowly outwards. Draco watched beads of sweat trickle down her forehead as she focused on the shield, not even bothering to cast offensively. Suddenly, as the bubble started to push his father towards the wall, Draco realized what she was doing. Using the shield charm offensively since she couldn't match the man for casting speed. He reigned in a snicker as his father inelegantly hopped towards a corner to avoid being crushed.

"I yield!" he yelled, using his position as master of the house to dampen all the spells in the room.

Hermione grinned and bowed, but had her wand ready this time when he cast a last hex at her.

Draco concealed his smirk.

* * *

Almost an hour had passed as Lucius ran Hermione through a variety of drills, most of which seemed designed to test her willingness to break or forecast underhanded methods. She did not have the cruel streak Lucius did, but used a large enough array of Dark jinxes and nasty hexes that Draco felt a glimmer of hope that his father would be convinced that Draco really had trained her for the Dark. Had really turned her to their side. Not that his father and he were really on the same side anymore these days.

In the center of the room, Lucius smirked, "Excellent, Miss Granger. Now, as a special treat, I've brought out an Order member; the Ministry has given us full permission to use him in training, as he's already condemned to die for his crimes."

He paced dramatically across the room, his robes fluttering behind him. Vain old coot, Draco thought bitterly. Upon reaching the middle again, he snapped his fingers and a thin man in rags appeared. Draco didn't recognize him, thankfully.

"Miss Granger, if you are indeed willing to help our cause, we need to know how you would fare in battle. That you truly have the mettle."

Draco felt the bile rise in his throat and didn't dare glance at Hermione. Suddenly, he knew where this was headed. They hadn't discussed what she would do, what her compunctions were if she were forced to torture an innocent, to kill an innocent. Draco imagined the wheels in her head turning. He wished he could nudge them, tell her this man's life was forfeit no matter what. He wished he could tell her she'd be killed, or Imperiused and used to draw out her friends. He wished he could let her know he himself might not survive her insurrection. He wished he could tell her that being her ally was truly his first hope that the Dark Lord could be brought down, that one life might have to be sacrificed for that.

His father droned on in his in his insufferably polished accent, "Would you mind demonstrating a Cruciatus curse?"

She nodded sharply and he imagined her channeling her anger at his father into the curse. Seconds later, the man writhed on the floor, his limbs twitching in unnatural directions, his skin undulating as the muscles beneath fought for freedom.

The relief he felt as his successful casting was eclipsed by an elation at his realization she'd cast it wordlessly. Clever witch! He didn't think her gambit would pay off, but she was clearly hoping by over-performing now she's get out of casting worse.

"I wasn't aware the Cruciatus was exceptionally useful in battle," she queried politely as she ended the spell. "It seems it would be time consuming and leave one open to attack."

She grinned a little, selling the lie that she was in on his game. Was complicit in it.

Lucius smiled hungrily at her. Her performance had given him a taste of what he sought, but he wouldn't-Draco knew from experience-be satisfied with her loyalty until her soul was as sullied as his own.

His father morphed his face into a considering mask.

"Indeed, Miss Granger. Perhaps you could instead cast a killing curse. Much more efficient."

The old man had neatly trapped her. She'd wanted battle spells. She got to cast battle spells. Draco felt numb. Should he just hex his father now and they could run? Or should he hex her and start grovelling, to save himself?

His thoughts were glacially slow. He remained seated, frozen in place. Dimly, he registered Hermione cock her head a bit to the side and smirk. The gesture was oddly and disturbingly reminiscent of his aunt.

"I thought you wanted to truly _test_ my abilities. Well then, let me impress you."

The scene that played before Draco's eyes was one he hadn't in a million years foreseen. Time seemed to stop as he watched Hermione draw herself up and flick her arm out towards the shivering man; the poor soul was so far gone he didn't even try to run away from the woman who looked like an angel of death.

But Hermione turned suddenly and pointed her wand at Lucius. The Imperio was out of her lips before Draco could process what was happening. He would have warned her his father was well nigh impervious to the curse-it made his claims after the first war all the more ironic.

But before any of that had trickled its way through his head, he saw his father go slack, his eyes unfocused. Draco had underestimated her natural skill with the spell then. The man then raised his own wand in the sharp cutting motion Draco had seen too many times, and a flash of green light burst from his father's wand tip towards the hapless prisoner.

Hermione lowered her wand, releasing Lucius.

She smiled.

"Impressed?"


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: I know the last chapter was really jarring! I didn't want to downplay how suspicious Lucius would be, and I felt this scenario was realistic. I hope you find this chapter a reasonable response from Hermione to the situation.**

**Madaboutyoubaby: Yes, I agree. I wanted that chapter to reflect the seriousness of the situation; Lucius isn't a nice guy. The stakes for this are really huge, and Hermione knows this. I really am curious what you think of this chapter.**

**SydneyN: I'm glad you liked the twist. HP is not a light universe, so I wanted to tap into that.**

**DramioneForever: Yes, the Death Eater faction will be super excited about Hermione; next chapter we'll hear more on that.**

**University Bound 2019: Glad it was surprising! I think Hermione agrees with you as well; murder isn't something to be taken lightly. I look forward to your thoughts on this chapter.**

**Rabradley09: Haha! I borrowed your review as Draco's first thoughts; they struck me as exactly what he'd be thinking!**

Hell, _I'm_ impressed, Draco thought as he processed what he'd just seen. He took a sip of tea and willed his traitorous hand to stop shaking. Hermione Granger had accomplished what he couldn't when faced with killing the headmaster. Sure, she hadn't cast the killing curse herself, but she'd displayed such an impressive bout of magic to get around that, he wasn't sure it mattered.

His father was just staring contemplatively at Hermione, which was about as close to an open-mouthed gape as the Malfoy patriarch was ever going to get. After a few seconds, the Death Eater nodded gravely, as if had made an important decision.

Hopefully it wasn't to kill her for insubordination. Or worse, to make Draco do it.

"Draco," his father murmured, "you failed to mention your lovely fiancee's skill with the Imperius. A once in a generation hand with that spell."

Draco ignored the shiver that ran down his spine and set the teacup carefully on the table and slowly walked out of the glass enclosure. His father didn't seem angry, and he hadn't started cursing anyone. Hermione's wand was at her side, but Gryffindor that she was, it was impossible to miss the tenseness of her muscles; she was ready to defend herself in less than a breath.

"I am glad you are pleased with her training, Father," he offered in lieu of an answer. "Although I do hope we might both be of use."

He walked next to Hermione, careful not to stand too close to her. She was still a Mudblood, and he wasn't sure how much his father's temper could take after that display. A part of Draco didn't _want_ to stand that close to her after that. An Avada through an Imperius? The killing curse required channeling an extreme hatred, required focusing one's thoughts towards the obliteration of a human life. Most wizards struggled casting an Imperius that caused their victim to do anything but complete actions in a zombie-like state, their body divorced from their thoughts. Only the most accomplished could direct their Imperiee (Draco wasn't sure it was a word, he mused) to exercise thought or emotion at all. But to channel it enough to be able to cast as complicated a magic as the killing curse? She'd harnessed Lucius' hatred for the man to cast the Unforgiveable through him. She'd have to have understood the nuances of the killing curse better than either of the Malfoy's to be able to manipulate it through the heavy-handed filter of the Imperius.

And she'd done so on a man skilled at shaking the Unforgiveable off him.

Draco realized he was less impressed than he was terrified.

"Her training is adequate," the blond patriarch corrected. "We can adjourn for tea, and discuss next steps. I believe that with her skill at the Imperius, Miss Granger is uniquely poised for a task I will explain then. You may change and meet us in the gardens."

She'd cast miraculous dark magic and his father had the audacity to turn up his nose at the state of her robes. A moment later, Draco was suddenly glad that Hermione's robes were singed and grimy; it gave them a brief respite before tea. Summoning his own courage, he offered his arm to the powerful witch. He had no idea what she was thinking; he couldn't quite reconcile the woman who had so earnestly believed he would turn and help the Light with the woman who had smiled and taunted "Impressed?" at a man she'd Imperiused to kill an innocent.

The door of Hermione's room snicked behind them. A second later, his unasked questions were answered; Hermione burst into tears and was nearly hypervenilating as she crumpled to the floor.

"Hey, there," he whispered as he crouched by her.

She pulled him down towards her with surprising strength and clung to his shoulders as if she were dangling above a chasm and he was the only thing holding her aloft.

Words that might have been _I killed him _came through strangled sobs. Draco felt like his brain was rattling in his head. He couldn't say whether the fact that her cruelty had been an act made him less afraid of her or not. The events of the last ten minutes were… more like a dream than reality.

And what to say? That the dark smudge on her soul would eventually fade? The ones on Draco's definitely hadn't. Would she feel better if he told her that he understood how she felt? If he told her that it was a necessary sacrifice? That her purity and innocence, that they would make sure it wasn't wasted?

He rubbed her back in slow circles, but her breathing continued to come in short pants and her cries had ceased to resemble words at all.

Shite. She was not going to be ready to go talk strategy with his father in a few minutes. He glanced at the clock. It had been only two hours since they left Draco's room, although it felt like a lifetime ago. He reached over and tugged at the Time Turner chain so he could loop it over his own head.

"Hermione," he stated as calmly as he could, "I am going to turn us back to 3 minutes to 1, when we were leaving my room. Okay? You don't need to do anything."

They could just stay in his room for those two hours; hopefully that would be enough to get her calmed down enough to keep them both alive.

She suddenly looked up at him, her eyes bloodshoot.

"To fix it?" she mumbled.

"Yes," he responded, not entirely sure what she was asking, but he knew they needed more time. He carefully twisted the dials on the Turner to take him back the two hours and eight minutes necessary. He was grateful that the hyper-organized Hermione had made them leave at precise times and record their positions so they could effectively use the Time Turners in just this way. Seconds later, as time whooshed past them, they landed in Draco's room just as the door closed behind their past selves.

Hermione lurched to her feet and launched herself towards the door. Draco quickly stunned her, shocking both of them.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.

She hiccoughed as her short, panicked breathing quickened.

"I was going to go fix it. I haven't killed him yet. I can fix it," she sobbed. She stood immobile for a moment before sinking jerily towards the floor.

"Hermione, you can't. You were the one who explained to me what would happen if we did something like that. If we tear a hole in space-time, we'd kill many more people than just that man." His own voice had risen in panic. His ally had completely gone off the edge, and he didn't know if there was any way to bring her back.

"We can… release him from the dungeons then," she argued. Clear snot was running out of her nose, dripping onto her robes along with her tears.

"That still could cause a tear. And if it didn't, there is no guarantee that Father wouldn't just pick someone else."

Draco's stomach lurched as he mentioned his father. Salazar, _his _father was the one who'd caused this horrible situation, who'd caused Hermione to sully her own soul in this horrible way. The gravity of what had happened really sunk in at that moment, and he had to carefully swallow the bile that had risen in his throat.

"Hermione, I promise you, I will work with you to find a solution to try to make this better, but I will not let you get us, this dimension, or all our allies killed in doing so. I know you did the best you could, that in the moment you made the impossible decision to take a life to try to save so many more. I know… I know I didn't do enough to help you. I know how hard that was for you. I won't say I'm proud, because that would be all sorts of awful, but… I'm…" he floundered. How to express his gratitude? His horror? His hopes, his fears? His admiration that she had stood tall, but that her heart was so full of caring that this war hadn't removed her ability to cry over loss of life?

"Determined. Determined we'll win this war, to make his sacrifice, your sacrifice worth it. I'll stand with you every step of the way as we make this place better for the future. So future little muggle-borns never fight the fight you fought."

She buried her head against his chest and her small frame was wracked by more sobs.

*** TR ** TR ** TR *** (1304)

After an hour, Draco cast a cheering charm and called Zibby for a Calming Draught. Together, they brought Hermione back to morose and guilt-wracked, rather than inconsolable. In the short periods between her tears, she had expressed how her brain had turned off, how she'd calculated-with cold logic-what she needed to do, how hard she needed to sell her training to save wizarding Britain. How terrified she was that she was the sort of person who could make that calculation and kill a man after doing so.

"We have to meet with my father in an hour," he reminder her gently.

He hated to see how unfocused her eyes were, how dull. Her hair positively drooped, and he found himself against all odds wishing it were back to its normal feisty volume.

"How can I make it better, Hermione?"

"Can you save him? Can we make it so he lives?" she whispered.

"Would you really risk all of your friends, all of us, our world we're trying to save for one man you don't know?" Draco found himself pleading, echoing the thoughts he'd had while he'd watched her back in the training room.

"I have to try, right? Those were the sorts of thoughts I had in the dueling room; the cause above everything… and look what it turned me into." She laughed softly, a pitiful mockery of the cruel laugh from the dueling room.

"At least Lady Macbeth had the gumption to get her hands dirty. I can feel the blood all over me and yet I didn't spill a drop."

Draco's hairs stood on end. He mentally shook himself; only one of them could break down right now, and as much as he wanted to, Hermione had clearly had that right.

"We could go down to the dungeons and try to see if you can talk to him, apologize, maybe cast spells so he can't feel any pain?" he offered.

It was risky, but so was having your only ally go completely mad with grief and guilt. His other thoughts-Polyjuice another prisoner (wouldn't work as even with the incompetence of the Death Eaters, someone would definitely notice if a dead prisoner popped back into the dungeons while another was missing)... create some sort of golem (completely infeasible in an hour. Merlin, it was impossible given a month!)-were unhelpful.

"Merlin, that sounds horrible. Would that make it worse for him?" She shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. "You're right though, that's the best we can do."

Draco started casting the notice-me-not and silencing spells on them, as Hermione stood still before him. Looking at her made him feel like someone kept repeatedly punching him in the stomach. He wished he could take her pain, wish he could have cast that curse in her stead. It was almost more painful to go through this, knowing they had the awesome power to turn back time, that the horror hadn't yet occured and yet they were effectively powerless to change anything. He hoped she wasn't using those newly found acting skills on him and was planning something rash.

"After all this, after we save everyone. I'll come with you to find his family. To volunteer at whatever cause we decide will help make it right," he found himself offering.

She nodded distractedly; Draco wasn't sure if she heard him at all.

** TR ** TR ** TR ** (474, 1778)

Half-an-hour. His pulse was racing. That was all the time they had to try to make this better-whatever that meant in this awful reality they inhabited-without actually changing anything. He was half-ready to stun her again; he wasn't completely convinced she wouldn't go off script and try to free the man, consequences to the universe be damned.

Miraculously, they reached the dungeons without mishap. Trudging along the damp hallway, Draco shuddered. What sort of family kept _actual_ prisoners in an actual medieval dungeons of their house? He'd heard some of the Swedes lived in huge glass palaces in the mountains. Maybe his dream Quidditch-playing future wife and he could live in one of those instead of this hell-hole.

The thought didn't give him as much pleasure as he thought it would.

"There," Hermione whispered, her voice shaking. The man she had killed, would kill.

He was sprawled out on the floor, grime making him almost blend into the dirty flagstones.

Draco cast a Muffliato around the three of them, and few monitoring spells so they'd know if anyone approached before removing their own silencing and notice-me-not spells.

"You," Draco called to the man.

Rocked out of the silence of the cells, he sat bolt upright, his eyes wide with the panic he should have been displaying in the dueling room. With a click of understanding, Draco realized that whatever they were about to do to him explained his preternatural calm before his death. It was both confining and freeing to know that his own actions were constrained by what they already (would soon?) had done.

Hermione glared at him, and asked gently, "Sir, what is your name?"

"Stan Shunpike," he stuttered, his eyes flicking nervously to Draco.

"How did you end up here?"

"Your lot put me here!" he whined. "I would think you outta know that."

Draco cast a quick tempus. 25 minutes. He struggled not to intervene in the questioning. He owed Hermione that much.

"Mr. Shunpike, you were captured acting as a member of the Order?" she hazarded.

The man laughed, a dry cackling sound. Draco vaguely wondered how old he was; the grime covering his face and the inky black circles under his eyes made it impossible to tell. Then again, did a fifty year old man deserve to die any more than a thirty year old one?

"I'm not falling for that interrogation technique, no miss! I know your lot isn't happy with my performance, but I did try my best to help the Snatcher brigade. I don't know what lying coward turned me in, but I didna never say anything against his Dark Lordship."

The man obstinately crossed his arms as if that settled the matter. Draco glanced at Hermione who was ineffectively hiding her surprise. Lucius Malfoy had lied about the man's identity; honestly, that was the least surprising thing that had happened all day. He supposed he should have told Hermione that.

Hermione worried her lip with her teeth and looked like she was about to cry again. Draco moved to put an arm around her shoulders; she didn't push him away.

"I, erm…" she looked at Draco pleadingly. Draco wished he had a helpful word or idea. How do you try to make amends to a man you're about to kill? Do you try to find out more about him, as Hermione seemed wont to do with her first questions, so as to torture yourself by knowing the man you would kill? These few minutes they'd spent with him hadn't endeared the man to Draco, but he now knew the sounds of his voice, how he gesticulated and supposed he'd live with those mannerisms haunting his dreams superimposed on the man crumpling in a bright green light.

"Sir, I have a confession to make to you. In fifteen minutes or so, you will be brought to the dueling room, and I will… kill you."

Draco filled in the words she omitted. Words of blame for his father, words of circumstance and guilt. From their conversation, he knew she wanted to take full responsibility for this, that she didn't want to push her crimes to another, however culpable that other might be. He wasn't sure if he admired or scorned that sentiment.

Stan took a step backwards and his eyes darted between the two of them.

"Are you joking? You're planning to kill me and came here to tell me that?" his voice wobbled and cracked like a second year going through puberty.

Hermione stepped forward, tears now streaking down her face, "It's complicated, Mr. Shunspike, but, it's already happened. It's fixed. I kill you, after torturing you with the Cruciatus curse."

"So change it!" the man yelled, having backed-up into the cell wall. "Why tell me this? So I'll suffer more. Sick bastards the lot of you!"

Hermione's breathing had become as shallow and panicked as the doomed man's.

"Mr. Shunspike," she pleaded, "I came to apologize for my actions and to see if there is any way I can ease your pain in this time. I can cast a spell that makes you incognizant of what is happening, that makes you immune to the pain."

The man just whimpered in fear.

"And we can financially support any loved ones you have," Draco offered.

"Don't you go near me mum or pap! Or Cind-" he cut himself off, looking at Draco suspiciously.

The man sank to the floor, and Draco suddenly realized he was likely only a decade older than himself. Too young, all of them too young.

"Why me?" he sobbed. "There's actual Order members in here. Don't you want to kill them? I followed along as best I could, never complained being sent into battle under the Imperious. Just didn't come in with as much enthusiasm as old Scabior and Whitney." He leaned forward and spat at Hermione.

"If you treat your followers like this, no one will follow you. I just wanted to go back to my bus route, to live in peace! But you rotters had to drag me into all this and then plan to kill me for not thanking you for the honor!"

Ten minutes. Draco felt the panic welling within him. Some guard would likely be down any minute to collect the prisoner. He doubted the man's angry vitriol would assuage Hermione's guilt at all; it did nothing for his own.

Hermione was quiet for a moment, but when she spoke again, Draco understood the tattered hat had put her in Gryffindor and not Ravenclaw.

"Mr. Shunspike, I am truly sorry for what I am about to do to you. I could tell you about how I will fight every moment to make sure your sacrifice brings the Death Eaters to justice, about how I will work to make magical Britain a peaceful place where wizards can live without fear. I know none of that will mean anything to you balanced against your life.

"I can only offer a life-debt to your family, and reiterate my offer to make this painless for you."

"Your life-debt can rot in hell," he whimpered.

Footsteps sounded down the corridor.

"Hermione, we have to go," Draco hissed.

"Mr. Shunspike, please. Would you like me to make this less painful for you?"

The man curled into a ball, but nodded, wailing incoherently. The sharp smell of urine indicated the stress of the situation had finally reached his bowels.

Hermione's neat wand sliced the air, casting spells Draco recognized as sophisticated memory charms, a variant of a dreaming spell, and a numbing spell so strong that he worried the man wouldn't survive its casting. He flinched a little seeing her holding her wand; he wondered if that instinctual fear would ever abate after her display earlier. He chastised himself then. He only needed to make it through six more days with her-the future beyond that was so tenuous it didn't bear thinking about.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Shunspike," she whispered to the man who now sat blinking confused in the cell, no longer cowering.

Draco pulled her deeper into the dungeons, towards the back entrance as the steps echoed louder towards the area they'd just vacated.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: **

**AN: Sorry for the delay updating; it took me a long while to figure out where Hermione in particular goes from here. I was just in Scotland, so I hope that wonderful experience will continue to keep creative juices flowing.**

**Sofia: Thank you! I am glad I'm improving and that you're enjoying this story!**

**Madaboutyourbaby: I'm sorry that this chapter made everything worse. I agree that it would have been better if Draco could have saved her, but I don't think he's fully into a "hero" role at this point. He's still scared and muddling through as best he can. **

**Dramioneforever: Agreed. She will definitely be changed by this experience. **

**Mega700201: Thanks!**

Draco stared at the ceiling of Hermione's room. It was blank and that provided a much needed backdrop to his cluttered thoughts.

Next to him, Hermione slept fitfully. After their meeting with his father, they'd spent a few hours plotting out how their orders jibed with their own plans. In many ways, Lucius' directives were a gift. Draco spun the conversation through his mind again. Nothing from Lucius was ever a gift, he reminded himself.

He had dragged Hermione, in freshly pressed robes and, at her own request, dosed with several more calming draughts, to his father's office. A few expensive face balms that his mother had thoughtfully sent (for Pansy as a pretense) during his sixth year hid the puffy eyes and blotchy skin that betrayed Hermione's hysterics. She assured him she would be able to make it through this meeting. Draco wished he felt as confident in that as he did in her spellcasting.

After pleasantries that felt like torturing cuts-really, how do you interpret questions about lunch and your day from a man who forced your friend to irreparably damage her soul, her self by killing another?-Lucius had outlined his plan.

His plan was simple. For all his cowardice, the man was a brilliant tactician. Hermione would lead a small army of Snatchers and the more expendable Death Eaters to lay siege on Hogsmeade, and on Hogwart's defenses if they got through the village without much resistance.

The Order would eventually come and Hermione would Imperius all of them to take her as a captive. Then she'd either force them all to kill each other or Imperius Potter and bring him to the Dark Lord. He seemed blithely unconcerned with which option Hermione chose.

Draco had watched as her clenched hands-out of sight of his father, but not him next to her-betrayed her anger and fear.

"Of course," she'd responded. She'd grinned, but the effect was more muted than that terrifying smirk she'd worn after she'd Imperiused Lucius to kill Mr. Shunspike.

"Draco and I will take tomorrow to amass some potions and spells to really make a good show at Hogsmeade. I have some ideas for storing fire in capsules that break on impact. We can set the attack for the day after tomorrow then."

His father stared at her for a long moment before nodding. Draco hoped it was reaction to anyone other than himself having opinions and not because he was suspicious of Hermione.

Draco sighed loudly. He had tried to talk with Hermione about their next steps, but she was listless, her normally sharp mind not even bother to engage. Draco felt the panic bubbling in his gut like those corrosive prank drinks the Weasel twins had once tested on the Slytherins. He understood the hopelessness, more than she would likely ever know, but a petulant part of him wanted to her to shake it off, to save him.

"Hermione," he whispered.

She had woken and had her wand trained on him before recognizing him and sinking back into the pillows a moment later.

"We need to plan. We need to be laying siege to Hogsmeade the day after tomorrow, and if we're going rogue and trying to end all of this, we need to start planning. Now." He hoped the panic in his voice wasn't leaking through. He suspected it was.

"I killed him, Draco. I killed him, believing that my cause was righteous, that _taking a human life_ was justifiable in order to save everyone else. _Your life-debt can rot in hell." _She whispered Mr. Shunspike's last coherent words.

"Granger, even your hero Dumbledore killed in the last war. He killed Grindlewald in a duel! I am not advocating that you feel _good _about this, but I am advocating that you snap out of this and make Mr. Shunspike's death worth it!"

Hermione recoiled at his last words. He winced as he watched her face shift between anger, fear, and what looked like impending tears.

"You're right. Let's make his death worth it," she finally rasped.

* * *

Draco felt like he had returned to the nursemaid role as they attempted to recover what they'd been planning before Lucius had upended their world. The Extendable Ear monitoring project had pinged loudly, starting both of them, and Draco had to admit he'd almost forgotten about it. He tried to squash the thoughts that that didn't bode well for their prospects when the conversation being recorded finally did that work for him.

The first part had just been pleasantries, starting with the "My Lord" that had triggered recording. Charlie Weasley had been brought in. Hermione would have been devastated to hear this if she'd remembered him, he was sure. More obsequious grovelling…

"You will providing care to my beloved Nagini. I have noticed a decline in her health which must be forestalled at all costs. Mr. Snape and any resources your should require are at your disposal."

Draco felt the hairs on his arms raise. The Dark Lord didn't _care _about anyone, even his precious man-eating pet. And to devote all of Snape's time to her as well...

"May I ask what she has been eating? And what are these injuries here on her side?"

Draco was surprised the man was cooperating. Had his allegiances turned? Or rather, Draco thought suddenly, should he check the prisoners' logs to see who was being held over the ginger's head to get him to toe the line.

"Primarily my foes," the Dark Lord responded simply.

"Human foes? At what frequency?"

"She has eaten two humans this month." Draco imagined the maniac said it with pride.

"Wizards or Muggles?"

"Wizards only." The Dark Lord was bigoted even in his pet food selection. Lovely.

"And the injuries?"

"I believe she was hit by a blasting curse and that several of the items that hit her were magical in nature."

"And she wasn't hit with any Dark spells? There is an aura of Dark Magic around her that I've only encountered with Basilisks..."

"That is not your concern! You will heal her and take care of her as if she is worth more than your entire family and everyone you have ever cared for, do you understand me?

"That Dark Magic must not be investigated or tampered with in any way. If that is what is harming her, find a way to keep her healthy otherwise. Dismissed!"

Draco felt a frisson of fear race down his spine despite his only reading the conversation. Beside him, Hermione was muttering to herself and tweaking the spells to try to pick up Charlie's conversations surrounding Nagini.

Minutes later, Quill Six started scratching out a conversation between Charlie and Snape. Draco thanked Morgana and Merlin that they'd chosen a room bugged with ears for their chat. One of the only lucky breaks they'd had in… years maybe.

"She's practically radiating Dark Magic."

"Who here isn't, Mr. Weasley?" Snape (probably) drawled (really, Draco mused, what other speech pattern did the bat even possess?)

"She also isn't showing up as any known snake from my diagnostics. She's registering as mostly human-"

"She used to be one, I believe. A Maledictus if the rumours are to be believed."

"Bloody hell. I'll check for human and snake maladies in that case. And hope to hell that I can help her despite whatever noxious spells are clinging to her…"

"My potioneering is, evidently, at your disposal, although I recall you had a passable hand yourself in the subject."

Draco glanced at Hermione, whose brow was scrunched in what he know thought of as her "thinking face."

"Is it even possible to make a Horcrux out of a living being?" she whispered.

"No idea. It seems like a terrible plan-putting your immortality in something mortal. Maybe we're seeing bludgers because all we have is bats…"

Hermione sighed, "We should probably plan on killing her anyhow. Once we know how to destroy the Horcruxes that is."

* * *

The Nagini information seemed to have lifted Hermione out of her spiral of hopeless self-loathing-Draco hoped permanently, but knew from his own experience how unlikely that was.

They filled their time planning their attack, full of colorful, loud, flashy explosions sure to attract attention. For once, putting on an obnoxious show was actually what was asked of them, although they could be sure the small army of miscreants they were taking with them would be bloodthirsty and ready to kill.

"Unless I Imperious all of them," Hermione suggested.

"Do you think you can hold that many?"

She shrugged, "Maybe? Can we test it somehow?"

"House elves?" Draco suggested.

"No, I don't think their magic is similar enough to ours."

"Prisoners?"

As soon as he said it, he realized it was the wrong thing to say. Her face wrinkled in pain.

"The guards. You can practice Imperiousing all the guards to go get food from the kitchens to feed the prisoners and bring us back a list of what they did. If anyone asks, it's a legitimate test to see how much of the Order you can control to do complicated, distributed tasks," Draco spilled out. His governess would have chastised him for babbling. Merlin above he was thinking of odd things! Maybe if your life was ending slowly it didn't so much flash in front of your eyes as play out slowly over weeks…

"Okay, that actually seems reasonable." She was already standing and headed towards the door.

* * *

There were about thirty guards scattered throughout the Malfoy grounds. Hermione wiped the palms of her hands carefully, one-at-a-time, on her robes before she swished her wand and clearly enunciated the spell. Her perfect stance and pronunciation made him feel like he was watching a younger MacGonagall, although he couldn't quite reconcile the mental image of the stern Scotswoman teaching an Unforgiveable.

Beads of perspiration pooled at her hairline, threatening to spill onto her forehead. She held a rigid stance for five minutes, before Draco realized she might pass out from the effort and got her a chair. She then proceeded to sit rigidly, as if in a trance for the next ten minutes.

Suddenly, she slumped down with a sigh.

"I think it worked," she breathed. "Can you go check the top of the stairs to the dungeon? That's where I told them to leave their written reports."

Draco scurried off, only once he had collected a thick stack of parchments did he realize he hadn't even noticed, let alone minded her bossing him around. Only one of you is really useful in this endeavor, the peevish voice in his brain reminded him. He wished he could swat at it. Ungrateful voice, living in his mind, insulting him!

He counted them as he walked back. Twenty-eight. She had missed two of them. He handed her the papers and let her reach the same conclusion. She spent a while longer looking through the notes. A few of them were incomprehensible scribbles, which had Hermione worried about her level of control, and Draco worried about the level of idiocy they were employing in the Manor. In the end, they compromised on another experiment, in which they would also track who had written each parchment so they could determine who had escaped control and if the apparent illiteracy was an artifact of the curse or an artifact of the person's education.

After an hour of rest (during which time Draco brought her lemon squares and cocoa from the kitchens), she tried again. Draco thought the beading of sweat was less pronounced this time, but that could have been his unending optimism…

This time she had controlled only 29 of them, but several of the reports were still unintelligible. Draco was about to send someone to fetch them when Hermione held out her hand.

"Let me try," she ordered.

Her brow creased again and she stared straight ahead with unseeing focus.

Five men slowly wandered into the room and then looked around in mild confusion, as if wondering how they'd gotten here. She'd called just the subset whose writing was suspect, without physically seeing them! Draco felt a chill race down his back.

"Drat," she whispered, oblivious to his newfound fear. "I called for seven of them."


	24. Chapter 24

**AN: Thanks so much for the positive feedback; it is really encouraging to know that you like this story (and this Draco). **

**Sorry for the slow updates. I am committed to finishing this!**

Draco and Hermione stood at the head of a small army of Snatchers and Death-Eaters-in-Training. Hermione twirled her wand lazily in her hand, her smirk more suited to a Dark Lady than to a third of the Golden Trio. Moment's prior, she'd set one of their army's robes on fire when he didn't follow her order to practice his Disillusionment spell. Draco had spent years cultivating his own aristocratic glare and was confident his facade matched hers.

All of which belied the hours they had spent going through Hogsmeade, cajoling, pleading, and nudging with minor compulsions when the former strategies failed the residents to be somewhere else for the day. In the wee hours of the morning, Floos roared, Portkeys whisked, and pops of Apparition took their wizards to an old friend in Aberdeen they'd been dying to see, or that museum in London that nice couple had given them tickets to. "No more bystanders die," Hermione had insisted, her eyes wet and mouth hard. Draco hadn't had the heart to remind her they were fighting a literal war.

He squelched the desire to run his hands over his face. He was so tired. They'd used the Time Turner to sneak in a few hours of rest in between Hermione's spell-casting, monitoring their information set-up, and creating Plans B through M of back-ups. They'd liaised with Lucius-Draco couldn't even think of him as Father without the image of him revealing Stan Shunspike to Hermione and insisting she kill him flashing in his brain and making him want to vomit-about their plan and how they would signal their infiltration of the Order and their next steps. That was the part that made Draco's heart race. They were relying on _people _and people who didn't particularly like Draco for the next part of their plan. If they couldn't convince Potty and Weasel to work with them, or if they did but their tasks took too long…

He pinched himself, a reminder that Plans K through M dealt with that.

"Alright, remember that our goal is to make as much noise, smoke, light, and the rest to lure the Order here. _You_ stay Disillusioned the entire time but create as much outward havoc as possible. No Apparition wards; no following civilians or Order members outside of Hogsmeade. I've promised my Aunt first dibs on… reprimanding… any disobedience," Draco drawled.

He wasn't sure if he or Hermione inspired more loathing at this point. It still felt odd, to be lumped with her and to trust her more than any of the lackeys on "his side." The litany of insults he had hurled at her marched through his head like little soldiers, mocking him.

"Disillusionment on three, two, one."

The horde of the Dark Lord's followers melted out of sight.

"And go," Hermione breathed.

The crunch of footsteps, followed half a minute later by the first sounds of explosions and light of fireworks signalled the attack on Hogsmeade had begun.

Draco resisted the urge to hug Hermione. In case this was the last he saw her. He didn't both out of a strange superstition it might make it so and to forestall the risk someone would see them. Weakness was deadly in this world.

** TR ** TR ** TR **

Draco and Hermione split their time reigning in their minions that had gotten overly enthusiastic in their task ("There is no need to burn down a perfectly good forest!") and casting some very nasty, showy, and-most importantly-loud spells against the Hogwarts wards. Hermione occasionally refreshed the illusions she'd set up that gave the impression that residents were fleeing and screaming. She had claimed the spells came out of her research on memory charms, but he'd noticed her trailing drops of blood when she came back from conducting the spell so he rather suspected it was more complicated and rather more… dark than that.

Draco was just about to ask her about it when a series of pops and a dull roar of anger from their own ravaging band signalled the arrival of the Order of the Phoenix. Draco glanced at his watch. 12 minutes. Rather slow response time if you asked him. He moved to block Hermione, who should have already started weaving the tendrils of the Imperius around the group looking for Potter, Weasley, or anyone who knew how to get to him.

A wave of deja vu swept over him. Standing here, useless while someone else carried out his job transported him instantly to the Astronomy Tower, confronting the strongest wizard of the 20th century and his own headmaster. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders. Hermione would skin him alive if he allowed her to be attacked because he was feeling sorry for himself.

Minutes crawled by. The fighting was intense if the shouts, screams, and flashes of colored light that daubed the morning sky were any indication. He wished they'd devised some way for him to tell how Hermione's casting was going. Potter might not even be present. That would be the smart thing to do, although their intel indicated he showed up briefly to most raids; Draco assumed he was vainly looking for Hermione. Typical Gryffindor.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on the back of his shoulder and the uncomfortable twist of Side-Along Apparition.

** TR ** TR ** TR **

Years of training and Quidditch practice allowed Draco to land on his feet and with his breakfast in his stomach. When he opened his eyes, he saw a his school-yard nemesis appear, wearing a placid expression. Draco jumped to work, setting up anti-Appartition wards, Notice-Me-Not spells, general defensive wards, and checking Potter for tracking charms. When he'd finished, he nodded at Hermione who looked rather disgusted-at herself or the glade or Potter-he wasn't sure. Under Hermione's control, Potter tossed his wand across to them, Draco catching it with ease.

Moments later, Potter came out of his Imperius induced haze and reached reflexively for his wand. Seeing it in Draco's hands, he immediately cut backwards away from them.

"Harry, wait!" Hermione cried.

The boy wonder didn't turn until he had reached the bounds of the area Draco had set up and literally bounced off.

"Who are you?" he spat.

"Hermione!" she cried. Her voice carried an anguish that surprised Draco and made a jealous piece of him flare up in anger. How could Potter's neglect elicit such emotion from her when she didn't remember meeting the guy? Would she throw herself into his arms, sobbing that the mean Slytherin has tortured her? He felt his face twisting into the sneer that Gryffindor's usually provoked.

"Last time I saw you, it was him," Potter ground out, pacing out the edge of his area and watching his wand with narrowed eyes.

"Harry, I know that. Malfoy went to try to get information from you, but when he learned about the Horcruxes, he realized that this was the only moment to turn against the Dark Lord. He filled me in on everything, and we're here to help."

Harry's eyes flicked away from his wand to meet Draco's eyes.

"'Filled her in?' So the memory loss you mentioned wasn't a lie."

Both Draco and Hermione nodded.

"Bellatrix was torturing me and then my memory was just gone; Draco claimed he could turn me to the Dark Lord's service to save my life. He nursed me back to health, nearly got me killed again, nursed me back to health again, and well, here we are. I've been reading everything I can get my hands on to catch up." Hermione's words came out in a rush, much closer to the school-girl he remembered than the accomplished, fearless witch he'd plotted with only hours before.

"That sounds like our Hermione," Harry whispered, his eyes finally settling back on Hermione.

"I'm sorry I Imperiused you, Harry. We didn't know how else to contact you or to talk to you in a group that wouldn't get Draco killed. We'd like to combine forces; we have a Time Turner, about 13 back-up plans, monitoring in Malfoy Manor on the Dark Lord's activities, access to the Manor, and probably access to the Horcrux that Bellatrix Lestrange has."

Draco winced a little at her straight-forward negotiation. She had steadfastly refused his recommendations.

"Obviously, we'll do whatever you want to convince you that we're on the same side," she nodded at Draco. He recognized the signal to get him to hand Potter's wand back but he felt as if an invisible hand prevented him from doing so. Potter with a wand was possibly more dangerous than either the Dark Lord or Dumbledore had been. He finally broke his mental spell and handed Potter his wand. His nemesis snatched it and held it in a defensive position immediately.

"You'll let me cast spells to remove disguises and then swear an Unbreakable Vow," he breathed.

Hermione's smile was one Draco hadn't seen in a long time, maybe since he'd given her that cursed ring. He swore he felt his heart crack a little that it was for Potter.

"Of course!" she enthused.

** TR ** TR ** TR **

A quarter-hour later, Hermione and Draco had been subjected to every revealing spell Potter could think of; he actually had seemed more reassured by Hermione's disappointment he didn't know more and suggestions for others he should have considered than any of the spells themselves. They had then cast an Unbreakable Vow to work together to bring about the defeat of Voldemort and his Death Eater operations. (It was Hermione who insisted on the last part).

The words of the vow seemed to still hang in the air, its magic settling into the three of them when Potter rushed over and hugged Hermione. He was still holding her, smiling at her with that dopey happy Gryffindor expression when Draco suddenly found his fist slamming into the Boy-Who-Lived's face.


	25. Chapter 25

**AN: This story is going to be a bit longer than originally projected (sorry for anyone panicking; I just re-read the first chapter and realized I hadn't updated the original 24 chapter estimate when I went off-script part-way through). We definitely have another 5-6 chapters to go! No fear. **

It was as if they'd been transported back to Hogwarts. Potter was bleeding, shouting profanities at Draco; Hermione was yelling at Draco; and Draco, well, he found himself torn between extreme horror at what he'd just done and amusement at Saint Potter's theatrics. Really, just like old times.

"What was that for?" an irate Potter shouted. His words were lisped around the blood pouring from his nose.

Draco was fairly confident the only reason he wasn't being hexed (aside from the strongest Shield charm he'd cast immediately after the gravity of what he'd done had sunken into his poor, confused brain) was that Hermione was standing in front of Potter, casting spells to verify that his nose was indeed broken and then fixing it with an Episkey. A literal human shield. Draco thought the satisfying crunch Potty's nose made as it snapped back into place almost made up for the fact that Hermione was fussing over Potter.

"Okay, but seriously. What the hell? You risk your life and Hermione's to change sides and then the first thing you do is punch me?"

Draco wondered if Hermione had healed the blood vessels in his eyes too or if the Boy Wonder would soon have eye sockets that matched his hair. He mentally shook the part of his brain that insisted on thinking these unproductive, juvenile thoughts. It was probably the same part of his brain that thought punching Potter was a good idea. The fight suddenly drained out of him as quickly as the impulse to punch the man had come. They had a madman to defeat, staggering odds against their achievement, and all he could focus on was petty squabbles?

He looked at Potter, who looked wary and ready to fight, and Hermione, who looked aggrieved and kept glancing between the two of them as if they'd spill secrets as easily as her beloved books. He felt as if his mouth was filled with cotton. Oh, that dark, terrible, traitorous part of his brain had a pretty good idea why he'd punched Potter and that same traitorous part of his brain would be surgically excised before he said anything out loud. On the other hand, if he screwed this up and they lost the bloody war against the Dark Lord because of this… he screwed up his courage and danced as close to the truth as he felt was reasonable. Given Potter's protective streak, admitting he was romantically jealous of Hermione might actually make things worse.

"I don't even know what came over me. Defending her in the Manor and during our attack on Hogsmeade… it's been all I've thought about. She's been posing as my fiancee, so my gut reaction seeing someone so close was just _defend_." He hated that a whine had crept into his voice. He directed his plaint at Potter, not even meeting Hermione's eyes; she was surely furious he was talking about her as if she weren't there. Potter looked both surprised and a little revolted; lovely, he had managed to read Draco's subtext there. Although he wasn't sure if the revulsion was because Draco saw him as a romantic threat or because of the thought of Hermione and Draco romantically involved.

Draco imagined the voice in his head thinking these awful, untrue thoughts being crushed under one of his mother's stiletto heels. It even made a satisfying little scream as it struggled beneath the black spike.

Hermione shot a murderous look at Draco and an apologetic one at Harry.

"I'll call off the attack on Hogsmeade," she offered in a long-suffering voice.

She closed her eyes briefly, Imperiusing the key participants she had pre-selected for this very purpose; they would tell the rest of the group to re-group at Malfoy Manor. Their "leader" would then deliver a message from Hermione (that she had planted earlier and triggered with the Protean charm which message to display) to Lucius that they had successfully infiltrated the Order and would report back later that night.

"We need to loop Ron in and plan our next steps. For obvious reasons, I think going to the Order HQ is a bad idea. Ideas?"

Hermione grinned, "I know just the place!"

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Fifteen minutes later, they were installed in a Muggle pub that they had warded and Muffliato-ed. Ron had tested Draco's resolve even more than Potter, picking Hermione up and spinning her around, practically yelling "you're alive! you're alive!" and whooping after his friend had confirmed it was definitely Hermione this time. Draco feigned a shutter, remembering when the Weasel had hugged him; it helped him ignore his clenched fists that hung at his sides.

Potter and Weasley insisted on an overview of what had happened. Draco thought he could actually feel the minutes slipping away from the end of his life. For people who had allegedly saved the day so many times, they were awfully interested in whether Draco had kissed Hermione or made her uncomfortable; like those were the priorities when they had a Dark Lord to topple.

Hermione was, evidently, of the same mind and quickly turned everyone towards the topic of Horcruxes, Time Turners, and her color-coded plans. She also had a number of questions she needed answered-Who is Tom Riddle? How many Horcruxes have been destroyed? The list (literally) went on (for three sheets of parchment).

They confirmed that three of the Horcruxes-the diary, locket, and Gaunt ring-were destroyed. Draco and Hermione informed them of their information about the cup in Aunt Bella's possession; they had done a bit more scouting and listening before the raid (and, well, a bit more Imperiusing but Draco didn't want to highlight that skill of Hermione's more than was necessary; Potter hadn't asked about her facility with it after they'd revealed she'd used it on him and neither of them had volunteered.) and confirmed it was in the Lestrange Castle. Potter and co. had had the students at Hogwarts interrogate the ghosts for information on the diadem and Luna Lovegood had convinced the Gray Lady to divulge the information she had on its location-in the Room of Hidden Things. ("It's another story in and of itself, honestly," Ron had gushed.) Hermione explained their theory about Nagini's being a Horcux, and that Charlie was being held captive (they assumed) to care for the snake.

"Do you know how to destroy them?" Draco's voice shook as he asked it. They'd clearly destroyed some before, but… if they couldn't destroy these, there was no point in getting excited over knowing where they were.

"Of course!" Ron scoffed. His usual bravado was tempered by the fact that he could barely take his eyes off Hermione.

"Or, rather, we know but don't currently have the tools," Harry amended. "But, happily that is also at Hogwarts. In the Chamber of Secrets, but at Hogwarts."

Hermione's eyes looked like they would pop out of her head, "That's real? No, nevermind, don't tell me! Tell me once this is over."

Harry smiled at her again, "You were the one who figured out it was a basilisk down there! I can't wait to tell you the whole story."

Draco bristled. Charming Potter with his stories of basilisks and how clever Hermione was. And it looked like she was falling right back into her easy rhythm with the two boys. Leaving him out in the cold, part of him whined.

"So how do we get into Hogwarts? It's not exactly the bastion of all things light these days," he drawled.

"Unfortunately, we can't get through Hogsmeade because of the wards and alert charms set there, which was our first choice, since Neville let us know about a secret passage through Dumbledore's brother's pub. We almost got into a really nasty situation with some Snatchers when we were testing the wards. We traced the Hogwarts grounds, but can't find another way in. We did, however, check out Borgin and Burke's under Polyjuice; it looks like the Vanishing Cabinet Malfoy used is still there. Can you still use it?" Potter addressed his last question to Draco, piercing him with his creepy green eyes.

"Can someone check if it's still in the Room of Hidden Things? It's useless if it's been moved," Draco mused.

Potter smirked at him, delighted to be a step ahead. "Already done! Neville says it's right where you left it, you know, right before a mass of Death Eaters used it to invade a school full of children. We just need to nip in there, get some basilisk venom from the Chamber, destroy the Diadem and nip back out!"

The unlikely quartet spent another several hours fleshing out and modifying Hermione's colored charts before crowding into the men's loo and looping the Time Turner's long gold chain over their necks. Draco reminded himself he was owed so much for being in such awful proximity to so many Gryffindors before the world blurred and faded back to four hours prior.

** TR *** TR *** TR **

Borgin and Burke's was quiet and looked a bit dingier than the last time Draco had seen it. Of course, who needed a seedy back-alley shop for Dark artifacts when the Dark Lord ensured they could be traded in the open? The new, posh antiquities shop, stocked with "treasures" from around the world, that had opened in Diagon Alley (rumor had it that the Dark Lord, and thus the Malfoys, helped finance its opening) may have also helped feed its decline. The news about Riddle's brief affiliation with shop connected a few dots for Draco about the madman's vehemence that it be bled dry and driven out of business.

"Don't touch anything," Draco hissed. "Especially you, Hermione." This earned him two green and blue-eyed glares and a cautious nod from the Muggle-born. At least one person understood him; he wanted no repeats of her engagement ring.

They slowly creeped towards the back, where the Vanishing Cabinet was stored. The greyish light in the shop felt ominous, oppressive. They had nearly reached it when the set of locks on the front door chattered as they clicked open. Hermione had grabbed Draco's arm when she heard it, then dropped it again just as quickly. He rather wished she'd grab it again.

"Hello, my lovelies." Mr. Borgin's oily voice called in a sing-song. "Time to rise and shine and see if we can't find you nice, _expensive_ new homes." The quartet released a simultaneous, silent breath of relief; he hadn't been speaking to them! They backed towards the Cabinet and out of Mr. Borgin's potential path as quietly as possible, although his constant stream of mutterings covered any sounds they might have made.

Finally, Mr. Borgin retreated to a back room and the group shuffled towards the cabinet. Only six more paces. Five.

Unfortunately, Potter's leg brushed a vase, sending it teetering towards the floor. His quick reflexes stopped it from falling, but also pulled the cloak partially off the group and his foot fell with a noisy thump. A breath later, Mr. Borgin had re-entered the room, drawn by the sound of the near-brush with death his pottery had experienced.

Fortunately, Hermione's wand was faster than Borgin's. He was disarmed and frozen a moment later.

After a moment of shocked silence, Draco grouched, "what type of self-respecting Dark Wizard opens his shop at 10am?" Hermione giggled a little, while Potter shushed him.

"What are we going to do with him?" Ron muttered.

"I suppose we'll have to bring him with us," Hermione responded after a pause. "We should hurry in case anyone comes." She cast a Disillusionment charm on the frozen shopkeeper, while Draco went up the cabinet and checked it for jinxes and protections; the only ones he found were his own. He released the mouse Hermione had Accioed with a small moue of distaste into the cabinet and waited for Potter to confirm it had arrived unharmed (with a nifty Protean charm that Hermione had been gratified to learn she'd devised) before the quintet piled into the cabinet.


	26. Chapter 26

**AN: Thanks again for following along with this story! And thanks for the reviews; it is so interesting and motivating to hear your thoughts about this story.**

"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Dark Arts and Misery!" Longbottom greeted cheerfully as they tumbled out of the cabinet. "Oh, you've brought presents, I see," he amended when Hermione lifted the invisibility charm from the frozen man.

"Indeed," Harry responded, wadding his cloak up and stowing it. Hermione set about magicking restraints on Mr. Borgin.

Being at Hogwarts seemed to bring out the natural leader in Potter; he stood straighter, his eyes were brighter, his smile more charming. Draco felt himself scowl in a viscerally ingrained response. Draco was counting on the man to win them a war, but did he really have to be so insufferable?

"Several of us need to go down into the Chamber of Secrets and several should stay here to find the Diadem. I need to be in the first group for obvious reasons-" he paused as if for laughter, but even Ron didn't chortle. "Right, so other takers?"

Ron and Neville volunteered. Longbottom responded that he'd come-since he knew the patrol schedules-at the same time that Weasley sputtered, "We can't leave 'Mione here with a Death Eater and the darkest piece of magic imaginable! You _know_ what they try to do to you when you're trying to destroy them." He paused and whispered much more softly, "Remember?"

Hermione looked both uncomfortable and peeved; she'd heard them tell the story of how the Weasel had been so paranoid he'd left their hunt and been convinced that she and Potter had hated him, been happier without him but she didn't appreciate being spoken about like an object to be protected, like she wasn't even there. She glanced at Draco, who, instead of the irritated expression she'd expected-given that Weasley had basically accused him of being untrustworthy-looked unusually somber.

"Make sure you don't hurt her then," he ordered as he stalked towards the exit. "Coming Potter, Longbottom?" he asked once he reached it. "I was under the impression we were in a bit of a hurry."

** TR *** TR *** TR **

Longbottom led the trio through the halls with a remarkable ease; Draco began to understand how he'd been leading the Hogwarts-based resistance so successfully now. The boy was a far cry from the bumbling pre-teen that Draco had stolen a Remembrall from. He winced a bit at the memory; he had been an unmitigated prat, and other than his recent change of heart, he was suspicious not much had changed. However, he wasn't left alone with his thoughts for long. Within fifteen minutes, they'd arrived in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom and Potter hissed at the mirror until it morphed into a dark passageway.

"Ladies first," Potter smirked, gesturing for Draco to enter.

"Seriously, Potty?" he sneered back. But he climbed into the entrance, unwilling to show hesitation after that jibe. Maybe that had been Potter's intent. He slid down the dark passage and stumbled at the end, moving out of the way just in time to avoid being hit by Longbottom. Draco cast a quick Lumos, illuminating the huge cavern he now occupied. Fully furnished with a giant skeleton. Delightful. The Dark Lord's throne at the Manor made a lot more sense now; he had a distinct decorative flair.

"Admiring your house's legacy?" Potter quipped as he landed behind the other two men.

"My father, I am sure, would be ever so proud of me right now, here in the Chamber of Secrets. Well, if I were here for other reasons than defeating the Dark Lord, of course." Potter snickered, and Longbottom looked at him appraisingly. He shrugged.

"Okay, fangs." Potter trudged towards the gargantuan skeleton.

"You seriously killed that thing? Second year?"

"He did," Longbottom responded proudly as he stalked over to help his housemate.

"Bloody impressive" was all Draco could manage in response to that. Maybe their side did have a chance after all.

Not long thereafter, several fangs were stored in a quadruply sealed and protected bag and the trio used sticking charms on their shoes to trudge back up the slide. Draco poked his head out first, and was met by the hooked nose of Severus Snape.

"Draco, what company you're keeping these days," the greasy-haired man drawled after he'd disarmed then frozen first Draco, then Potter and Longbottom when they appeared a breath behind. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had defected to the Light."

Draco blanched and was surprised his heart didn't stop. They were done. Utterly and completely done for. He wished he could at least warn Hermione. He was trying to wandlessly summon his charmed Galleon when his mentor whispered Legilimens and Draco, wandless and unprepared, felt his godfather rush past his mental shields.

"Warn Hermione!" he yelled as his mentor ripped through his mind and he heard Potter and Longbottom trying to break their bonds.

"Very interesting." Snape swished his wand, warding the room. "We have quite the conversation ahead of us. I'd hate to be… interrupted."

His words hung in the air for a long moment before the man sighed, looking more tired than Draco had ever seen him.

"I will attempt to be as brief as possible, given that I assume we are all under time constraints here. I have a great deal of information that will be useful for you. First, I am still loyal to the Order of the Phoenix and will endeavor to aid your task destroying Horcruxes and defeating the Dark Lord in whatever capacity I may. Second-" He pinned Potter with a glare and raised his voice; the boy had started shouting obscenities as helpless tears tracked down his face. "I have information about the identity of an eighth Horcrux."

The room fell silent at this revelation for a moment before Potter screeched, "You killed Dumbledore you sodding bastard! I _saw_ you do it, in cold blood!" Draco nodded his head; the flash of green from his godfather's wand, the corpse of his headmaster tumbling off the tower like a floppy toy… those images haunted his dreams still.

Snape inclined his head. "Yes. I did kill the headmaster, at his own request as you might recall. His plea at the end was for me to honor my promise to kill him. If you promise not to do anything foolish, I can show you. You may choose to still hate me afterwards." All three boys nodded, and Snape flicked his wrist to unbind them. Draco felt as if he stood on a shifting sand pile. Snape, disloyal to the Dark Lord? He'd seen him at Death Eaters meetings, seen how he mocked Potter at every turn… Potter crumpled slightly, as his nodded promise not to hate his sworn nemesis had deflated him.

"Dumbledore was dying. The ring you retrieved-" He nodded at Harry who weakly mirrored the gesture. "-was slowly killing him. He made me swear to kill him, to prove myself as a loyal servant of the Dark Lord and also to save Draco's soul." He quickly Transfigured one of the sinks into a Pensieve and extracted a silvery memory from his temple. "Proof, of a sorts," he explained.

Draco looked at Potter and Longbottom. He felt sick and wasn't sure he wanted to know what was in that memory. He'd had enough guilt slowly eating away at him that he'd _tried_ to kill the headmaster; knowing the old fool had known about it and had wanted to save him anyways… it made him want to run and never turn back. Potter looked similarly conflicted, while Longbottom, to Draco's surprise, looked stoic as he stepped forward. The two followed and soon all three were immersed in a memory-in which Dumbledore had consulted with Snape about his horrifying cursed arm and extracted a promise from Snape to kill him in place of Draco.

"Why didn't you try to save him?" Potter howled at their former potions professor the moment they rejoined Snape in the bathroom. He clutched the sink, as if it could prevent his grief from crushing him. Tears streamed down his face, as he relived his beloved mentor's death and grappled with this new idea that the man he'd blamed for it could no longer be hated for it. Draco pretended he didn't see Longbottom offer his handkerchief as he blinked away moisture in his own eyes. Pensieves caused some people's eyes to water, that was all.

"I did try, you foolish boy," the current headmaster snapped. "Do not insult me! I brewed every healing draught and researched counter-curses in every spare moment I had. You can go on loathing me with every fiber of your being, but do not insinuate that I wanted to kill him or did not make _every_ attempt to save him."

Another long moment of silence reigned, broken only by the faint drip of the end faucet.

"You mentioned there is an eighth Horcrux," Longbottom ventured. Draco snapped his head towards him; he'd forgotten that in light of the revelation about Dumbledore's death. Potter didn't look at any of them as he whispered, "Why would _he_ even tell you about the Horcruxes?"

Snape cleared his throat. "The night that the Dark Lord killed-" He coughed wetly, and had Draco not known better would have thought he had choked back a sob. "-the Potters, he created a psuedo-Horcrux, accidentally. Lily's sacrifice for her son protected him from the Killing Curse, which rebounded and fragmented the Dark Lord's already damaged soul. One of those fragments found a home in the closest living creature."

Draco inadvertently recoiled from Potter a fraction. He'd felt the Dark Lord in his own mind; imagining a fragment of that thing's festering, toxic _soul_ inside you… Potter did what Draco felt like doing and vomited into the closest sink.

"Dumbledore had long been suspicious, ever since your ability to speak Parseltongue was revealed in second year. His suspicions grew with your mental connection to the Dark Lord in fifth year."

Potter retched again into the sink.

"So Dumbledore knew I'd have to die," Potter stated his voice dull. He hung over the sink and Draco couldn't help but contrast his wan, hopeless face with the inspiring leader he'd seen step out of the Cabinet less than an hour before.

"I am afraid so." For the first time, Snape's voice lost its bite. His next words sounded tentative. "I have been _investigating_ an alternative, to remove the fragment of his soul and place it in another receptacle. If you allow me to perform a few tests, I can refine my spells… there are, of course, no guarantees."

Potter croaked, "I want an Unbreakable Vow that you'll help us and that you're being truthful. Then, yes." To all of their surprise, Snape knelt down and held his hand out to the boy as he passed Draco back his wand.

Draco took it his wand out of habit more than anything. Unbreakable vows seemed to be a part of his new normal.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

They trudged back to the Room of Requirement, heads spinning with the information Snape had presented. Snape had offered Potter two options that he was "reasonably confident" would result in the soul fragment's being destroyed an allow the Boy-Who-Lived to continue doing so. Draco personally thought that both sounded pretty abhorrent and risky, but he supposed that was all relative to a certain death. Oddly, Potter had looked greatly cheered (again, relative to the sickly pallor he'd evidenced when confronted with the reality of the contents of his curse scar) by this news. The former potions professor had also handed Draco a vial of the tarry black goo they'd removed from Hermione's engagement ring; he had, apparently, restored it to its fully potency and claimed "Hermione would know what to do with it."

They paced the necessary three times before the wall, alert for the Carrows or others ready to shatter their plans. Finally, the door winked into existence and the three boys gratefully shuffled in.

Draco nearly ran into Potter, who had stopped dead, surveying the scene before him. Ron appeared to be unconscious and Hermione was huddled in a ball, crying. She snapped her head up upon hearing them enter and flung herself into Draco's arms. Instinctively he pulled her close and rubbed her back, just as he had so many nights back at the Manor. He couldn't make out what she was saying between her sobs.

He looked up to find Potter's wand trained on him, his eyes dark with fury.


	27. Chapter 27

Draco gulped. Having Potter's wand in his face was not something he took lightly, and like all these Unbreakable Vows, something that seemed to be happening with far too great a frequency. He hadn't done anything… oh, except hug Hermione. Seriously, was the self-righteous git going to draw a wand on him every time he touched Hermione? And _she_ had clearly started this! Was he being blamed for being the one the golden girl ran to for comfort instead of Potter? That, that Draco could actually understand being angry over; he wasn't looking forward to the day when Hermione ran to Idiots 1 and 2 instead of to him.

He flicked his eyes towards Ron meaningfully. To his surprise, Potter nodded and ran over, awakening the Weasel with a quick Ennervate. Draco continued to hold Hermione, whose small frame was still wracked by violent sobs. Had she hexed him? If so, why was she crying? Had he hurt her and she hexed him in self defense? He felt his ire towards the redhead building instantly.

"Is Hermione okay?" Ron asked dazedly as he sat up.

"She's crying her eyes out in _Draco Malfoy_'s arms, but she seems unharmed" Harry said with a tone that signalled that was not at all okay.

"Oh thank goodness!" the redhead cried.

"What happened?" Neville finally spoke up, touching a tarnished circlet with an enormous blue gem on it with his toe.

"Watch out, mate! That diadem is the nastiest of the Horcruxes we've seen so far," Ron took a shaky breath before continuing. "Hermione and I were looking for it, and when I found it, I put on the Dragonhide gloves like we discussed but it was in my mind like that!"

He snapped his fingers for emphasis then seemed to deflate.

"It was worse than that locket even. The locket… just made me feel worthless and paranoid. This one, it made me feel _right_. It pulled up those same fears and insecurities but sort of, I dunno, wove them together with this logic behind it that made it seem ironclad, like I'd always been right about everything and just no one saw it. It told me… well, nevermind exactly what it told me, but it convinced me to put it on, that I'd know how defeat You Know Who and finally be the hero and…" he glanced at Hermione again and Draco got the feeling the Diadem might have been dispensing advice usually left to Witch Weekly's "Woo Your Witch or Wizard" section along with tips for toppling Dark Lords.

"Hermione tried to get me to stop. I… I told her she just didn't want me to use the Diadem to save the day because she'd been so corrupted by Death Eater scum. I was moments away from putting it on my head when she hexed me."

Hermione's voice was muffled by Draco's chest when she added, "And then it turned its attention to me." She hiccoughed another sob and didn't say anything else. Draco wondered if she was crying because it had offered her unlimited knowledge and she'd turned it away or if it had taunted the raw guilt she felt over Stan Shunspike and her recent flirtation with the Imperius curse. Or if it told her where her parents were… He continued to rub slow circles over her back. There were a lot of pieces of knowledge that could make someone cry these days.

Potter was already rummaging a basilisk fang out of the bags they'd brought back. He viciously stabbed it through the crown, covering his face as a noxious black smoke wafted up from it.

Potter rubbed his eyes tiredly. Plebian, Draco thought smugly.

"Well that's four down, three to go," he whispered.

"Two to go," Hermione corrected, finally lifting her head.

"Ah," Potter sighed, "we have no update you both on a few things we learned."

** TR *** TR *** TR **

Hermione ruthlessly edited their plans to accommodate Snape's experiments in getting a soul fragment out of his head.

"Do you really think writing 'Harry gets himself mostly killed, hopefully' in magenta is really the most appropriate color?" the man himself asked.

Hermione looked vaguely horrified, "That's not at all what it says! And, well magenta contrasts really strongly with green and blue so it made sense for that to be your color…" She trailed off, seeing the mirth in her unremembered friend's eyes. She set her jaw firmly and her mouth twisted in the smirk Draco was sure she'd learned from him.

"I thought pink suited you," she added primly. This elicited a full fledged laugh from the maybe-doomed man.

His laughter was cut short by a scuffle and a shot of light overhead. Draco looked around frantically only to see Borgin had somehow freed himself and wandlessly Accioed his wand. The man was shooting Stunners left and right as he beelined for -

"The Cabinet, don't let him get away!" Draco shouted.

The man scuttled behind piles of Hogwarts detritus, dodging their spells. Draco nearly growled in frustration. They'd all forgotten about the hapless shopkeeper, and here he was undoing their carefully laid plans! Of course the slippery git would be a talented escape artist; in his line of work, he likely tangled with unsavory types all the time. Draco would know, he supposed; he'd accompanied his father to the shop a number of times.

"Bombarda maxima!"

Hermione's voice rang out over the melee and the Cabinet exploded just as Borgin had opened one of its doors. Relative silence reigned in the room as they all processed what she'd done. Except for Borgin, who'd been knocked unconscious by the force of the blast.

"Hermione," Ron ventured, "we were planning on using that to get out of here."

"Well, so was he, evidently, and then probably was running straight to his former employee, one T.M. Riddle. We'll come up with another plan," she huffed.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Weasel, Longbum, and Draco flew silently over the grounds of their school. The rush of air, the thrill of accelerating-usually flying cleared Draco's mind but his thoughts continued to fly bounce around his head like those Cornish Pixies Lockhart had crammed in that cage. A quarter of these thoughts were devoted to feeling sorry for himself, for being stuck with two men who really, truly (and rather reasonably) hated his guts on their way to the Lestrange Castle to destroy a Horcrux. Another quarter was filled with a sort of creeping, existential dread about this whole endeavor and the increasingly unlikely chance he'd survive it. He rather fancied he was used to those thoughts by now; they'd been his constant companion ever since the Dark Lord had commanded him to kill his Headmaster.

The other half thought about Hermione, who was off with Potter and Snape to try to get the Horcrux out of Potter's head, hopefully without killing him. He remembered Hermione's grim face when she understood the subtext behind Harry's request-of course she was the more talented spell-caster, would be better able to support Snape if something went wrong-unlike Ron, she would support actions that would result in Harry's death if that's what it took. She was too devoted to their cause and too sensible not to.

He imagined her at Azkaban, emptied of prisoners but not of its terrifying guards. Snape had revealed he had served as the negotiator between the Dark Lord and the Dementors and, through his research and preliminary conversations with them, believed they could remove only the fragment of the Dark Lord's soul. He shuddered, thinking back to what his godfather had revealed. Horcruxes were, evidently, a delicacy for Dementors as they contained both the huge amount of energy of a soul (which evidently could sustain a Dementor for close to a decade-far superior to the measly meals they got from siphoning joy) but also the additional energy imbued when the soul of the sacrifice was ripped from its host. The energy was attractive, but evidently it was the flavor that really sold it. They'd tasted that dark soul when last they interacted with Potter (Draco remembered with chagrin his own antics mocking Potter for his reaction to the Dementors; there had been no time for apologies and now maybe there never would be). The fragment of the Dark Lord's soul had experienced to joys of murder; he'd relished in the sounds, the smells, the feel of torture. That soul's twisted version of happiness matched the darkness of the Dementors and they coveted it. They could only remove souls from living humans, so the chance to consume a Horcrux was once in a lifetime, even for a being as immortal as they.

He imagined her not being able to cast a Patronus under duress, her lack of memories cutting off the depth of happy options available to her. He imagined the responsibility, the horrible grief she'd experience if another person died. He imagined, imagined, imagined, torturing himself until he thought his head might explode from the stress of it all.

The finally alighted just beyond the edge of the school wards.

"Ready to pay Auntie B a visit?" Neville quipped.

Draco held his tongue. His aunt had tortured the man's parents into insanity. Nothing could make that better, much less anything coming from the mouth of her blood relative who had mercilessly teased you as a child and then joined the same dark organization. He wished Hermione were here with her mulishly set jaw and determination to _fix_ everything.

Instead, he held out his arm and gave the two men more information about where they'd be Apparating. Weasle took the opportunity to remind them all of the plan again.

All too soon, two Gryffindors were touching him (he decided he'd burn the robes afterwards; it would be cathartic) and they were swirling through the uncomfortable void towards Lestrange Castle.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Draco didn't remember visiting Lestrange Castle as child; he'd still been in nappies when Aunt Bella had been sent to Azkaban, in part for torturing the parents of the man walking beside him up to the twisted wrought iron gates. Looking at the monstrous house and its grounds, he couldn't quite imagine any self-respecting parents would have brought any child, much less a toddler here, but then again, his parents had allowed him to carry a cursed diary into a school at 12 and then get a Dark Mark at 16...

Behind the gates, a forest was doing its best to choke out the spindly, dark building about a tenth of a mile past the gates. Thorns longer than Draco's forearm burst from thick vines and in the shadows, the leaves seemed to rattle and rustle. The place seemed wholly abandoned. Evidently the flora that had moved in once the castles' inhabitants were sent to Azkaban were as dark as they had been. Maybe their poisoned spells had leaked out into the grounds. His aunt had once tittered that blood made the best fertilizer. His stomach lurched at the thought that she might have been offering legitimate gardening tips.

"You sure they've been here in the last century?" Ron hissed.

"You've seen her hair; why do you think her lawn would be any better kempt?" Draco snapped back.

Surprisingly, the ginger seemed to accept the wisdom of Draco's words. He pulled out a flask and passed it to Longbottom, who nodded gravely before tipping it into his mouth. Draco watched, mesmerized as the tall boy shrunk into the familiar body of one Hermione Granger.

"Ready?" Longbottom snapped. Draco had to admit, his imitation of Hermione's bossy impatience was fairly spot on, although he liked to think his was better.

"I need some bruises and dirt, but you look great," Weasel agreed. He blushed slightly, confirming Draco's suspicion that the Weasel held a torch for Hermione. He tried not to gag.

A few stinging hexes at Weasel and rolls in the dirt later, Draco grabbed the red-head and dragged him to the gate. Punching him in the face-for a good cause, no less-made him feel a bit better.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

The instant Draco's hand touched the gate, a pulse shook the fence, distorting the air around it. What felt like hours later, but Draco realized must have only been seconds, the familiar face of his Aunt peered curiously through the gate. He idly wondered how she got through all the underbrush. Was it just an illusion? Or did the wood somehow recognize and bow to the superior evil in its midst?

"Little Draco. Why are you at my house? I thought you were _busy_ with the Dark Lord's business," she hissed the last words in clear admonition.

"Aunt Bella, please look at who I have with me," he drawled.

Longbottom gestured happily at the Weasel, who was doing a bang-up job looking royally peeved and somewhat terrified.

"That's not the Potter boy," she pointed out.

"Of course not. That's why we're here and not at the Manor. We need somewhere to stash him for an hour or so while we contact Potter to lure him out. Can we come in now? He's torn my robe," Draco whined.

She chuckled and for a second, Draco reckoned he saw his Aunt, the one who'd apparently sat with his mother while she was in labor with him, singing lullabies and holding her hand and who'd cried when she first held him. A second later as she led them down the path (the thorns and branches did indeed shrink away from her, revealing a narrow passageway) giggling and gesturing grandly, he wondered if it had only been his addled imagination.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Draco had the extreme misfortune of a fleeting thought that all was going quite well, seconds before the trio passed through the opulent Lestrange front door.

A sizzling sound, followed by a yelp that started in Hermione's register and quickly dipped down into Neville's signalled that the wards of Lestrange Manor had removed the effects of the Polyjuice.

For a moment, time stood still. Longbottom's eyes were attempting to bulge from his sockets, Weasley's jaw had dropped precipitously towards the floor, and his Aunt looked gleeful. He wondered if she recognized Longbottom and looked forward to reuniting his sanity with that of his parents. He wondered who would throw the first spell. Scratch that. It would definitely be Aunt Bella. He wondered if she suspected him; would her trust buy him a second of time?

And then time sped up and before he'd even raised his wands, several shouts and flashes of light assaulted his ears and eyes. And then silence. For a moment, he thought he must have been hit by a Confundus, because what he was afterwards was Neville Longbottom standing with his wand outstretched, pointed towards a very much Stupified Bellatrix Lestrange.

He must have stood there, shocked for an eternity, because it was Weasley's voice that cut through next (and who knew how long it took for his three brain cells to scrape together an idea?), "Right, reckon we Incarcerous her and then Levicorpus her with us in case there are others here, and then find the Horcrux. Malfoy, did the rest of the Polyjuice survive? If so, I have an idea."


	28. Chapter 28

**AN: I must apologize for neglecting my amazing reviewers; I have been so focused on getting these chapters posted. I promise I do read every review and it is both so encouraging and helpful to know what I am doing well (or poorly!)**

**Mega700201: Thank you!**

**Mistress charge: Thanks so much! I am also very attached to these characters and am thrilled you like them.**

**Tara: Sorry, no spoilers from me :) But everyone's reactions to the previous events will come!**

**Pgoodrichboggs: Yes! Draco is getting very protective and slowly becoming more attached to Hermione. I hope this slow-burn has been effective. **

**Guest: Yes, Hermione's sense of righteousness does make her quickly warm up to the Gryffindors, but all her memories are of Draco, so she's in a tricky position. **

**Madaboutyoubaby: I'm trying to keep the updates more regular! Thanks for your patience. I'm loving writing Draco as he gets bolder and let's his Gryffindor side out!**

**SakiHanajima1: I've been trying to keep this somewhat realistic in keeping the romance and fluff low while they're fighting; I think all of them would be pretty focused, although who they are thinking about and worried about definitely reflects their underlying feelings! The story will extend past the end of hostilities, so I promise Dramione fans won't be kept waiting forever ;)**

**VelvetRoseMorning: Yes, this is a complicated and hard time for her. I wanted to tell a story that reflected the atrocities and mental horrors of war and how a sensitive character like Hermione would navigate that. **

**Moonlight10060: Lol!**

**Sofia: Thank you so much!**

The next hour was a blur. They did indeed traipse through Lestrange Manor with an unconscious, bound Bellatrix Lestrange until they found Hufflepuff's cup and stabbed it with the Basilisk fang. Draco again thought that things were going suspiciously well, but this time, nothing terrible happened.

_That he was aware of_. He swore his heart constricted with the thought he might have jinxed Hermione from afar. He cursed himself for becoming as superstitious as the old Purebloods who sat in circles gossiping about Grims and tea leaves and paranoid as that git Moody. He cursed Hermione while he was at it-for what, he wasn't quite sure, but having her on his thoughts all the time was exhausting.

"Hopefully just Nagini to go," Weasel whispered.

Draco found himself hoping against hope that Weasel was right.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

They'd been at the rendez-vous point in Ottery St. Catchpole for almost two hours and the nervous butterflies in his stomach had moved from fluttering to gnawing a hole in his intestines. What had Hermione called it-an elcir? Ulshur? Whatever it was, he was fairly certain he was developing one as he sat in the middle of a field, spelled and warded from view with his former almost-worst-nemeses and his still-bound-and-unconscious aunt.

"They've got fifteen minutes," Weasel muttered.

"Hermione will murder us if she finds out we waited an extra fifteen," Draco added half-heartedly. It was already time for them to start on Plan B since neither had the group arrived nor had they sent word of their plans.

"We'll tell her we just arrived," the redhead mulishly argued. Draco wondered if the Gryffindor's desire to wait stemmed from the same desire he had-Plan A involved the most people surviving, so abandoning it seemed to signify some existential acknowledgement of partial defeat.

"Or maybe we all forgot how to cast Tempus charms," Longbottom offered.

The man had alternated between a vacuous calm and nervous energy since he'd taken down the woman who'd destroyed his family. Draco couldn't tell if he meant that as a joke or not. He, personally, found the fact that Longbottom couldn't cast a Tempus charm as altogether too believable to be funny. Although, he'd just cut down Draco's Aunt, who was arguably one of the best duelists since Flitwick and Dumbledore.

"She's good at telling when we're lying," Draco drawled, enjoying the way Weasel twitched at his voice. Small comforts.

"How would she-"

Weasley never got the chance to finish his growled question.

The charmed coins flared to life in their hands; Longbottom dropped his.

"Success. Rendez-vous in 5."

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Draco hadn't known that five minutes could feel so long. The warm, fuzzy, wonderful glow he'd felt when Hermione hugged him suffused him. Hermione said success. He was sure she'd been the one who'd written it, somehow. Potter probably didn't even know how to spell rendez-vous. And even if Snape had sent it, he wouldn't have said "success" if Hermione had died or been grievously injured. He felt some of the warmth fade into the pit of worry. He cast a Tempus charm. 4 minutes and 15 seconds left.

Finally, a loud pop heralded the arrival of the missing trio. Hermione and Snape were holding Potter, who looked positively ghostly and on the verge of collapse. They hadn't even set him down before Snape was snapping out orders to Draco to get a potion brewing and Hermione was snapping out orders to the others to get a bed and bandages transfigured for Harry. Hermione and Snape-he'd never noticed how similar the two were; bossy, self-assured, and terrifyingly competent. He rushed to obey, his spirit still feeling lighter than it had in days. _Hermione was fine!_

After an initial rush of activity, Potter was ensconced on a makeshift cot being mothered by Hermione, and the two groups started to debrief. Longbottom started, and the description of their own work seemed to stretch on and on. They'd captured Bellatrix and destroyed the cup. Done. That would have been Draco's approach, but no, Longbottom went into more detail, making Draco grit his teeth. He was much more interested in what Hermione and co. had done! Although, Draco did rather enjoy how Hermione's eyebrows had leapt towards her hairline when she noticed the unconscious woman off to the side.

Finally, Hermione spoke, and Draco found himself entranced by her voice.

"We Apparated as close as we could to Azkaban and then used a Muggle speed-boat to get to the prison. Harry's idea," she gushed, smiling at the sleeping savior. "The Dementors were waiting for us, and it was horrible, but not so horrible as _normal_, evidently; they weren't trying to feed on us during the negotiation, just as we weren't trying to repel them with Patronuses."

Snape cleared his throat.

"Right, anyways," Hermione blushed. "Snape negotiated with them using Legilimency. They agreed to remove the Horcrux and _only_ the Horcrux from Harry and allow us safe-passage back to the mainland.

"We agreed, and one of the Dementors floated forward. Harry nearly passed out as it leaned forward to Kiss him. And he screamed as the Dementor's mouth touched his, but we couldn't intervene! A moment later though, the creature leaned back and Harry blinked and said 'still here,' before actually fainting.

"We were in the process of Ennervating him and dragging him back to the boat when Dolohov and cronies appeared. We started dueling; it was awful. We were outnumbered 3 to 1. Harry could barely stand and he still fought and the pressure from the Dementors was horrible. Evidently their truce only lasted as long as calm reigned.

"I took out Dolohov and two of the others. Snape got five of them and Harry the last. We then got into the boat and were just about thinking we were safe when we saw the Dementors floating across the water after us.

"Snape saved us. He cast his Patronus and knocked them all back, while I steered us back towards shore.

"Then, we saw Ministry officials in the distance on the shore, so we ended up Apparating from the moving boat here," she finished breathlessly.

Draco found himself exhaling with her. What a tale!

"But the soul fragment is destroyed?" Weasley asked. He'd settled himself on the ground next to Potter's cot.

"Yes," Snape responded, lacking his usual venom. "I watched the exchange using the spell usually reserved for executions and can assure you it is destroyed. However, as you may have gleaned from Miss Granger's story, several Death Eaters are… missing in action and will remain that way, the Ministry is aware there was activity on Azkaban, and the Dementors themselves are privy to this exchange so time is of the essence."

"Got it. Plan A, part III?" Longbottom quipped.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Draco had thought that snuggling up with the Gryfinndorks to Time Turn had been the closest he'd be with them. That had been before they'd had to do the same, but with Professor Snape as part of their group. At least, Draco thought smugly, his godfather looked equally if not more disgusted than he himself felt.

They had all Apparated to the Manor, with Weasel, Potter, and Longbottom under the miraculous Invisibility Cloak and then stashed Potter up in Draco's bed for an a few hours to continue healing under Snape's care while Draco and Hermione went to go check-in with Lucius and offer an update. They'd informed him they'd be back in under two hours with Harry Potter in custody-guaranteed. Hermione had been offended that the Malfoy patriarch had seemed skeptical. Draco had been thrilled that he didn't seem suspicious.

The Time Turner deposited them all back in the Manor, just behind their awkward group trudging up to Draco's room. He'd insisted that Potter complete his recovery here so they could use the Time Turner without leaving the Manor grounds and tripping the wards twice coming back in a few hours previous; Lucius might not notice, but that wasn't a risk Draco was willing to take, especially not with his father so focused on his mission.

Potter would use these extra hours to recover, despite his protests that he could help kill Nagini. Weasel, surprisingly, had been the one to firmly over-rule him.

And thus, Weasel, Longbottom, Draco, and Hermione slinked through the Manor first to the armory-to select an array of cursed weapons in case their spells failed-towards the smaller ballroom that had been transformed into Nagini's room.

It was more horrifying than Draco had imagined from reading the transcripts of the conversations in the Manor before their Time Turn. Streaks of dried blood covered the floor and walls. Trees had been leaned against the walls, and the stripped bark suggested the enormous snake had indeed availed herself of the opportunity to slither up them. Despite the gore, the area did seem well tended, and Nagini herself was basking below an orb of artificial sunlight. Draco tried to ignore the fact that she seemed very happy and… sated, if the size of her mid-section was an indication.

Hermione had taken a small step forward when the side door opened and an older version of Ron Weasley appeared.

"Charlie?" the younger Weasley cried.

The older redhead whirled to face them, nearly dropping the vials he held.

"Ron? Why are you here? I thought you were still with the Order."

"I a-" Tiny Weasel was cut-off when Hermione slammed her foot down on his.

"He realizes which side will be winning," she cut in smoothly.

Hermione understood how to read a situation hedge her response; Draco wished he could cover up the look of confusion gracing their red-headed companion's face.

Charlie carefully measured several drops of the potion into the large water bowl on the far side of the room and then turned to face them again.

"Why are all of you here? Only the Dark Lord and a select few are allowed in here," Charlie stated calmly. He held his wand casually, but at the ready.

"Is he Imperiused?" the younger brother whispered frantically to Hermione. She shook her head sadly.

"Charlie, we're on the same side. We are still with the Order," he insisted.

Draco and Hermione both shifted to have their wands at the ready.

The elder Weasley blanched slightly and nodded grimly.

"I was afraid you'd say that. I suppose there's no chance I can convince you to just turn around and leave? This is really way more complicated than you-"

"Complicated!?" Ron burst out. "Standing against or with evil isn't complicated, Charlie! Mum taught us that. What the hell are you thinking?"

"It's _that _type of linear thinking that is going to get all of you killed! Have you wondered _why _our family hasn't been targeted since Bill and Fleur's wedding? I _bought _that. _Your _safety, _Mum's _safety. The Ministry fell, Hogwarts has all but fallen… look around you, Ronnie, and be a realist."

"You're arguing you're selling your soul _for your family?_" Ron roared. The rest of the room was entirely ignored as the two brothers raged at each other. Draco noticed Hermione surreptitiously locking the doors and casting Muffliato; she never took her eyes off Charlie though.

"Yes! And if you weren't an idiot, you'd seen how reasonable that is. Percy gets it. Sometimes it is better to be alive than to be right."

"None of the rest of the family want to be protected by your selling yourself out to the Dark!" Ron raged.

"I know," Charlie sighed. "But that's a sacrifice I am willing to make for all of you." He suddenly looked far older than his years.

He looked at the rest of the group, his eyes lingering on Draco. The unasked question of Draco's loyalties hung in the air. If Draco was loyal to the Dark… the odds were even.

It was Hermione who broke the silence.

"You know we can't let you leave this room with the information you have about our presence and _whatever_ you have surmised from this conversation about our allegiances."

"I can let you go with my vow I will never speak of this," Charlie countered.

Hermione shook her head, "We're not leaving without Nagini."

"She's a snake, and likely used to be human, leave the poor creature alone."

"She's a _Horcrux, _a part of Voldy's soul that makes him immortal!" Ron spat. "Voldy will never die as long as she lives. Step aside and let us end this war, Charlie. Please.

"I know you. I know you want to keep us all safe. I promise I'm not risking our family's lives. We have a plan and we can succeed! I know you love us. And…" Ron took a ragged breath, "and I forgive you for defecting. Please just don't stand in our way."

Draco wanted to roll his eyes at this mushiness. How much time had they wasted on this conversation? He glanced at Hermione. Her alert stance suggested she was thinking much the same. Longbottom was the only one who looked like he wasn't going to start casting hexes.

To his surprise, Charlie lowered his wand and the room collectively let out a breath.

However, in this interlude, no one had been watching Nagini. She burst out of her coiled sleeping position across the several meters that separated her from Charlie in an instant, her jaws clasping around his torso, then neck…

Ron started hurling hexes as her, closely followed by Hermione, and Longbottom. All of them seemed to bounce off, as if her hide were Dragonskin. Draco considered the mace he held, and tried to summon a spark of courage to run forward with that instead. Standing there, waiting; being frozen as he watched Hermione Imperius his father to kill a man-it was if it was happening again. No, that had been a mistake before and he would never live down the guilt of having failed her. Not again.

Draco darted forward with the mace. The others seemed to catch the same idea. Hermione cast protective spells over all of them as the three boys rushed towards the snake. Nagini effectively parried Draco's strike with a lunge, but Ron's sword cut through her neck from the side. Her bloody head dropped to the floor with a dull thus as blood spurted from her neck, drenching them in the strangely cool liquid.

Ron was at his brother's side in an instant, closely followed by Hermione and barrage of diagnostic and stasis spells.

"Charlie, Charlie! You've gotta pull through," Ron begged.

The lights on Hermione's wand were consistently red. Draco felt his heart sink, despite himself. The elder Weasley's life was already almost gone.

"Ron," he coughed, blood coloring his spittle. "Tell mum and dad and everyone… I'm sorry! I just, I just wanted everyone to be okay."

"You'll tell them," Ron cried.

"I love you all, let them know I love..."

Hermione kept casting and Ron kept babbling, but Draco saw that the man's spirit had already left.


	29. Chapter 29

**AN: Thanks to mega700201 and TripleLLL for the reviews; glad you are enjoying! Two more chapters left after this. I've already posted the first chapter in my next story (also Dramione, but much lighter!) That story is already fully written, so I can promise a more regular update than this one has had!**

**Also, for the last chapter, I would love someone to read over it to make sure I don't totally muck it up. If anyone is interested write a review or send a message?**

They brought Charlie's body back with them, after Vanishing Nagini's corpse. _Later. _Later, they could deal with the grief and the logistics of burial. _Later. _Later was starting to look miserable no matter which way they looked at it. Draco only hoped the later associated with this side was better than the later of the side he'd betrayed. For now, they'd keep Charlie's body safe and unmolested.

Potter was looking more alive by the time they arrived with the grim update. Potter had cried with Ron at the news; Draco felt like he was intruding, but had nowhere left to go. He hadn't personally known the man, although he'd never forget his grisly death right before his eyes. He settled on comforting Hermione, who was teary-eyed but seemed a bit lost. He supposed it was odd to mourn a man you didn't remember but to whom you'd presumably been close and to see the grief of your two best friends you similarly didn't remember. Merlin, this whole situation was just so bizarre!

Snape pulled them back to the task at hand.

"Let's end this. Then we can bury our dead with the honor they deserve," his voice was rough with unshed tears. Draco realized he had likely taught Charlie and even served with him on the Order.

"Let's end them," Ron agreed with vigor. His face was still a blotchy red.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Showtime. It seemed at once anti-climatic and more intense and scary than anything he'd ever experienced. It was worse than waiting for the Dark Mark. Worse than the jitters before a Quidditch match against Scarhead. At the same time, it was too calm, too banal to be the moments before the battle that would end this war-one way or another.

Draco touched his Dark Mark, summoning the Dark Lord. He was flanked by Hermione, dressed to the nines as a Dark Witch, and Neville Longbottom Polyjuiced as Bellatrix Lestrange. Snape followed closely behind. Ahead of them, Potter and Weasley were bound by invisible cords.

They dawdled outside the ballroom. Pops inside indicated that other Death Eaters had been called; too many. Draco's gut roiled. Hopefully they wouldn't be too outnumbered. They'd find out soon enough. The realization, recalling the good-byes everyone had said before they Polyjuiced and set off, that none of them were really expecting to come out alive, crystallized in his gut. He wanted to go back and say his again. _Hermione, I love you, and you've changed me for the better. Snape, thank you for being the Father my own could never be. Potter-you're not as awful as I'd thought. Longbottom, I swear I'm not my aunt. Weasel, I hope you avenge your brother. _He hadn't said any of that and now maybe he never would.

Finally, the hissed voice of the Dark Lord bade them enter.

Draco walked into the ballroom, a bound Harry Potter shoved at wandpoint in front of him-all that his father had ever wanted from him. He could have choked on the irony of it.

He forced Potter and Ron to kneel before him, subtly releasing their bindings as he did it.

0 Horcruxes to go. Only 1 Dark Lord, he reminded himself.

And 50 odd Death Eaters.

"My Lord," he bowed. "I have brought you Potter and the youngest Weasley, as requested. My apologies that it had taken me so long." He delivered a scripted description of how he'd caught them, providing cover as Hermione, Snape, and Longbottom quietly (and without moving) used a combination of Sticking Spells and the Body-Bind Curse to freeze the Death Eaters where they stood. Weasel had been the one to think of it; apparently his awful twins had pioneered the combination of the two spells so that frozen victims didn't fall over. The benefit of the long robes and masks was that no-one could even tell much of the room was frozen.

Draco bowed lower, causing the transfigured copy of the Slytherin locket to tumble out of his robe-front.

"What is that?!" the Dark Lord hissed, distracted immediately by the bauble.

"My Lord," Draco offered, his voice shaking, "it appears to be a relic of Salazar Slytherin that Potter was holding. I retrieved it and hoped to present it to you."

He carefully lifted the chain over this head and held it out above him, careful to touch it with his bare hands-a show of its safety. His back was starting to hurt from the elongated bow, but he was proud to say he did not shift. He hoped the trio had incapacitated the rest of the room.

The man who had been Tom Riddle launched himself out of his throne to grab the piece.

Just as Hermione had planned.

The second the half-blood touched the piece-which had been soaked in the poison Snape had returned to them-he let out an unearthly scream and fell to the floor.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

This time, there was no pause, no moment of calm before chaos reigned.

The Dark Lord was back on his feet, hissing in pain. The part of Draco's mind that wasn't focused on protective spells noted that Hermione had been right; the Half-Blood was only partly incapacitated.

Potter was now standing, ready to duel. Draco was a little impressed that the boy didn't waste time on fighting words or taunts. He simply cast Expelliarmus with the grace and poise he displayed only while dueling and playing Quidditch.

The Dark Lord blocked it and the two traded spells.

In a book, Draco thought ruefully, the rest of them would stand still, watching transfixed. In reality, the Death Eaters they hadn't frozen started flinging spells, while an enterprising Death Eater realized their compatriots were immobilized and was casting counter spells. He and the others worked to take them down, but one did not become a Death Eater solely based on evil intent; many of them were accomplished duelists. He did note with satisfaction that even Longbottom and Weasley weren't holding back to the nice spells the Order favored; they were playing to survive.

They had taken down ten or so Death Eaters when the doors flung open and another twenty robed, masked figures barged in. _Shite_, Draco thought.

"Cover me," Hermione asked him. Without waiting, she started casting the Imperius. Draco doubled his efforts; she had trusted him so implicitly to protect her, she hadn't even needed a response. He'd die before betraying that confidence.

A moment later, they saw the fruits of her efforts. Twenty or so Death Eaters turned their wands on their masked brethren and started fighting against their own. Draco felt a fiery pride spark in his chest. Sweet Salazar was she impressive!

If the room had been chaos before, it was pandemonium now. Fighting against their own removed the clarity of purpose the masked horde had previously displayed and the five fighters were able to take down many more. Maybe, just maybe the tide had turned.

He felt Hermione slump against his back and nearly staggered forward. About half of the Death Eaters under her control slipped. Moments later, Neville was hit with a purple spell Draco didn't recognize. His shields and efforts to attack those attacking him and Hermione were faltering. He swore he could feel Hermione's strength flagging as she tried to control the ten or Death Eaters she still Imperiused. But the brief advantage they'd held was quickly disappearing under the weight of spells that bombarded them.

Suddenly, another group appeared in the doorway. Draco was ready to start defending from a new corner, while mentally cursing himself for not properly saying his goodbyes and his apologies when he recognized his mother and the horrifying, unique shade of red hair of the Weasley clan.

The Order had arrived!


	30. Chapter 30

**AN: We're almost to the end here, folks! Thanks for joining me on this crazy journey, especially those who've been with me since this was on Hawthorne and Vine. Next chapter is the last one (unless I hear a huge outcry for an epilogue). **

**Mega700201: Thanks for the review and for being the most dedicated reviewer! Your notes do lift this poor writer's spirits!**

Draco sat with Hermione and his mother in the library with the surviving members of the Order. Hermione had been revived after passing out from magical overexertion and still looked a little peaked, although she had helped tend to their wounded until Draco had physically dragged her to sit down (aided by Weasley, who said he'd hex her if she didn't rest). His mother looked regal despite the blood running from her face and rips in her robe. Another woman he didn't recognize, but who'd been introduced as his Aunt Andromeda sat nearby, fussing over a woman with violent pink hair who had lost a leg in the battle but was otherwise (in her own words) "complete fine!"

Potter looked shellshocked still. He had won the duel with the Dark Lord when Potter's shield had reflected the Dark Lord's own Sectumsepra back at the tyrant. No had been watching as the Dark Lord fell, although a good number of the Death Eaters had surrendered immediately when they felt their Dark Marks burn off with a vindictive fire. Another host had fallen as they clutched their arms in pain.

At that point, the Order had a decisive advantage and quickly disarmed and incapacitated the remaining Death Eaters and started to care for their own injured. Explanations of identity and allegiance quickly followed- Weasley and Potter vouched that "Bellatrix" was really Longbottom; Draco and Hermione and Snape were on their side; the Order had been summoned and let into the Manor by Narcissa Malfoy (by way of her formerly estranged sister) so she was cleared instantly. Draco took some pleasure in identifying his father as one of the Death Eaters and _not_ one of the heroes. Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge, Garrick Olivander, and Professor Flitwick were the only casualties suffered by the Order, aside from Charlie before the battle. The Charms professor had single-handedly defended Potter from six Death Eaters who had started attacking from behind once the Order had arrived before he'd been felled by a stray spell from the Dark Lord.

Hermione's head dropped onto his shoulder, and for a moment, the world didn't seem so awful after all.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Draco had last seen Hermione at the funeral and memorial service for Stanley Shunspike. Hermione had thrown herself into organizing it, working with Narcissa Malfoy to plan an appropriate event for the man she'd killed, and visiting with the man's elderly mother. That woman was, Draco reckoned, the reason Hermione was holding on at all; she had forgiven Hermione with magnanimity after Hermione had provided her with the posthumous Ministerial Pardon for his work with the Dark Lord as a Snatcher and the Prophet feature on the man that Draco had bribed Rita Skeeter into writing. The grieving mother had asked that Hermione's efforts focus on providing meaningful training and opportunities to young men like Stan, which was something she'd been happy to promise.

The funeral itself had been gut-wrenching. Arthur Weasley had spoken first, his voice thick with grief as he told the story of his own son's defection to Voldemort's service in an attempt to save his family. Days after his own son's funeral, he asked everyone in the audience to see any combattants and any bystanders as their own family and to approach them with love and kindness, instead of judgement. Draco didn't believe there was a dry eye in the crowd when he'd finished. Then Harry Potter himself had spoken, telling of his interactions with the man on the Knight Bus and how the smallness of the wizarding community meant that all of them were linked to each other. Minerva McGonagall spoke about his love for Transfiguration. Ministry members had spoken of his professionalism in driving the Knight Bus; regular passengers had shared his favorite jokes and how he'd take scenic routes past their favorite places if the bus wasn't full.

Afterwards, Hermione had been unconsolable, and Ginny had actually drugged her to get her to fall asleep after Draco and Hermione's friends had attempted to comfort her for several hours.

That was two days ago and none of them had seen her since.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Draco sat with Potter, Longbottom, Weasel, and Weaselette at a newly re-opened cafe in Diagon Alley. The bustling shopping area wasn't quite back to normal and the mood of the shoppers ranged from elated to fearful as they grappled with the losses and fear of the previous year. Shopkeepers fell over themselves to serve the WonderGryffs and eyed him with interest and suspicion-the Prophet had written a glowing account of Draco and his mother's defection but, then again, the Prophet had said a lot of things that weren't true during the war. His presence in the shops with the Golden Crowd seemed to lend enough credence to the words that no one ran or shrank from his presence as they had done mere weeks ago.

"Where could she be?" Weasel grouched. "She's alone and doesn't remember her past! Why would she _leave_?"

"I still think she'd looking for her parents," Ginny said stubbornly. "She wouldn't want to be away from them for too long and once she learned she'd Obliviated them and sent them to Australia-" she glared at her brother and Potter at this point "- she would have been itching to go."

This was news to Draco. He hadn't realized anyone had told Hermione of her parents' likely whereabouts. He was inclined to agree with Weaselette's logic.

"We checked the Portkey office and had the Aurors do forensic detection on the Floos and Portkeys between the countries," Potter said wearily.

"She would have taken Muggle transit," Draco stated with sudden clarity. "If she were re-tracing their steps, she definitely would have taken the same route so she could gather more information."

The group gaped for a moment, before Longbottom piped up, "Right, can we take Muggle transit to follow her? She might need our help."

Despite himself, Draco felt himself warm towards the gangly man.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Three weeks later, Draco found himself in the same company plus Hermione's Muggle parents in the waiting room at St. Mungos.

Once they'd known to look at Muggle transit, pieces had clicked into place immediately; Hermione actually hadn't made any effort to conceal her movement. She'd purchased a one-way ticket to Sydney, and left a trail of airline and immigration officials she had met with during the time she'd been planning Mr. Shunspike's funeral. Draco didn't mention the vague confusion a few of the officials had expressed when describing their conversations with the "bushy-haired brunette;" the rather tell-tale signs of compulsion charms was a secret he'd take to the grave with him. She had fought like hell for all of them, and if she was willing to bend rules to find her parents, he was not one to judge.

They'd booked emergency international Portkeys later that afternoon and used nearly every spell in the _Location and Tracking Spells: 70th Edition _to track down Hermione. The group together had then tracked down her parents and, while they hadn't risked trying to reverse the spell on her parents themselves, had convinced them of the existence of magic and the possibility that they had a daughter who had-hopefully temporarily-removed herself from their memories. St. Mungo's staff had fortunately been able to reverse the block Hermione had placed on their memories quite easily; the head Healer had been so impressed with the skill Hermione had applied the charm that he offered her a job on the spot until she'd revealed she herself had no memories of most of her life nor of the methods she'd used to cast the charm.

Which brought them all to the current moment, where Hermione was in a long, delicate group spellcasting session designed to bring back her memories; they'd brought in experts from around the world to consult and help with this complicated case. The Granger parents had been remarkably calm about the whole ordeal. Draco suspected it was hard to remain angry or fearful at a daughter who couldn't remember having cast spells against them but was clearly deliriously happy to have them back in her life. The pair sat on a bench re-reading the literature the Healer's had given them on the procedure they were attempting.

Draco fidgeted. She'd been in there a long time. He hoped that when she came out, memories restored that she'd still deign to speak with him.

Finally the door to the waiting room swished open, revealing the lead Healer for Hermione's case. Their group half-stood expectantly. Draco's heart dropped; this was it, the moment the real Hermione returned and he lost his fake fiancee, his co-conspirator, his friend.

He never imagined it would drop further when the Healer shook his head and announced, "The damage is permanent; we cannot return her memories."

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

It was the Doctors Granger who'd suggested instead of returning her memories they donate them. They'd originally been thinking of Muggle methods-writing Hermione letters, showing her pictures, telling her stories, but with magical means assisting them, they'd soon enlisted nearly a hundred people to donate Pensieve memories of Hermione and her time in the Wizarding World. Those closest to her-Potter, the Weasel clan, the professors-were curating weeks of memories for her.

Draco stood at the back of the room at her "Pensieve Party" deeply wishing he hadn't participated in either the donation of memories or in this ridiculous event. It was held in the reconstructed Burrow and was hopelessly tacky. The Weasley twins had made gigantic decorations (after being introduced to the concepts of balloons by the elder Grangers) shaped like important elements of Hermione's past-the Gryffindor lion roaring and rearing rampant; a table full of Potions surrounded by flickering firelight; a giant Basilisk that froze the other balloons for thirty seconds at a time; the Hippogryff that had mauled Draco… the stuff of impossible stories that somehow were true. Molly Weasley had baked cakes and biscuits and chocolates and scones and whipped-up every confection or meal she could remember Hermione ever eating. Potter had somehow convinced the Professors to release copies of Hermione's exams for her to look at; they were displayed on little pedestals around the house and were charmed to speak the Professor's assessment ("marvelous!" "extraordinary") if one got too close. The Grangers had made "scrapbooks" of photos and letters for her that they invited the guests to sign or add notes to. Draco had to admit the books were beautiful thoughtful and so far from something he could imagine a Pureblooded wizard ever having that they were almost more enchanting for their oddness. Luna Lovegood had painted beautiful pictures of Hermione with her friends. All in all, it was an expression of the love the Leaders of the Light felt for the witch.

The atmosphere was joyous, despite all that had happened. They'd won and their heroine was injured, but in a way that love and donated memories could help. That concreteness, perhaps, had been why they'd all spent months planning and siphoning memories and talking together and brainstorming and siphoning more memories and writing letters and finding old photographs…

Draco scowled again. His memories of Hermione were not ones that would endear him to her. But he owed her. And so he'd donated his memories as well, cringing as he plucked the memory of the first time he'd called her a Mudblood, of the time he'd told her he hoped the Heir of Slytherin cleared out her kind from Hogwarts, of the time he'd hexed her teeth to grow as long as a beaver… His final addition had been the memory of his Aunt torturing her. The memory that had erased all of hers. He didn't know why he'd come to this stupid event. Once she'd watched all the memories-Gryffindor parties, how she'd set Snapes robes on fire, her exploits as part of the Golden Trio, dancing with Viktor Krum at the Yule Ball-and compared her life with her friends with her history with Draco… he'd be lucky if she didn't spit on him in the streets.

He watched Hermione laugh as she watched a projected memory of her saying that she, Weasel, and Potter could be "killed or worse expelled!" surrounded by her classmates, professors, and family. The warm sunlight highlighted her curls, accented her smile. The happiness there; it was like seeing a world Draco could never be a part of in a crystal ball. Unattainable and fragile and heartbreaking.

He walked back out of the Burrow, leaving the laughter and joy back with the people who deserved it, and Apparated home.


	31. Chapter 31

**AN: Last chapter! Again thanks for all of your time on this story. I have decided I _will_ work on an epilogue as requested, but it might not be done for a few weeks!**

**Also, to clarify: I _really_ do appreciate any and all reviews! I had posted a response last chapter saying thank you to a really dedicated reviewer who typically leaves a short review that was construed as being rude; I sincerely meant it that I appreciated their dedication. Seeing that someone read the chapter and took the time to say thank you really meant a lot to me every chapter, and I had only wanted to express that. I realize written words leave out a lot in term of tone but that was not meant to be sarcastic. Only story-Draco is that sarcastic! So, my apologies to anyone who felt that my response to your review was in jest or mocking; that was not my intention. I wish you could see what a smile your feedback-short, long, positive, or negative-gives me!**

**Tara: Thanks! I hope you like this chapter. I'll be curious if you felt it nudges them in the direction you hoped for.**

**1fan: Wish granted, although I can't guarantee it will be quick!**

Draco became a bit of a recluse. The day after the party he'd gone to Diagon Alley and thought he saw her from a distance; the panic he'd felt - had she seen the memories he'd given? How much did she hate him? - the shame that had engulfed him had meant he'd turned on his heel and Flooed back to the Manor immediately.

And it wasn't as if he was lacking activities. He had an Aunt and cousin he'd never met to become acquainted with, not to mention the cousin's small son he was rapidly becoming very fond of holding (especially when he made his hair match Draco's!). He had background donations to make towards Hermione's charity in Stan Shunspike's memory and to the War Orphans Foundation. He nominated Hermione for a seat on Hogwarts Board through layers of wizards so it couldn't be traced back to him, suggesting they incorporate new curricula to prevent another war and to promote respect and understanding of Muggle culture. He met with Longbottom and discussed how Draco could found a new research wing of St. Mungos for victims of this and the previous war who suffered from rare curses. He brewed Potions with his godfather to donate to Hogwarts, to St. Mungos… in short, penance. He had a lot of penance to do.

Even from his self-imposed seclusion, he could follow her though. The Prophet followed her with a tenacity that exceeded even Skeeter's obsession with her during their fourth year. She testified at Death Eater and Snatcher trials, advocating for imprisonment instead of the Dementor's Kiss and for re-education and re-habilitation rather than incarceration where it wouldn't harm the public safety. She championed House-Elf rights in Dobby's memory, a teary-eyed Harry Potter's support buoying popular support for her campaign. She went to lunch with classmates; she spent lots of time going to museums and shows and meals with her parents. In short, she was flying to the heights Draco had known she was capable of when he has gambled on her potential to save her life while he drowned in the aftermath of his own sins.

He wondered, every once in a while, if it felt like penance to her too.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

On August 15th, she wrote him a letter. He had stared at it for an hour before opening it, imagining all of the things she might say. She hated him; he'd betrayed her; he'd said they'd been enemies but seeing the memories, she'd truly understood how awful he was… he deserved to be in Azkaban. She wouldn't even be wrong was the worst part. There was nothing Draco could say to defend himself from these imagined words.

But Draco Malfoy had no right, he decided, to protect himself at her expense. And so he'd finally opened the letter.

_Draco, _

_I have some ideas for a new campaign to decrease prejudice in Wizarding Society and need your insight. Meet me at Florean's Friday at 6pm? _

_Hermione_

He stared for another hour as he tried to prevent his now manic mind from reading too far into this; he felt like his thoughts were trying to break out of his head! Had she forgiven him? Or had she just not gotten around to looking at the memories he'd given? Or was this just about getting him to finance the project-Merlin knows the Ministry had a bootlace budget these days as they rebuilt society. But he could live with that. He'd given her the entire Malfoy fortune if it meant she looked at him with anything less than derision and hate. Or even if it meant there was a sliver of hope she might one day smile at him with half the warmth she once had.

He tried hard to ignore both the parts of his brain that sneered that he really had completed his transformation into a Hufflepuff and the part that insisting on thinking about Hermione, Hermione, Hermione.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

Friday arrived and Draco found himself at Florean Fortescue's (renamed in the man's honor and now run by a distant relative of the deceased) half an hour early. He was dressed impeccably-as assured by Blaise, Theo Nott, and Pansy when he'd called them over earlier to help. He hadn't even really minded their ribbing and mocking him as long as he looked his best; not like he was trying to impress her, or flaunt his wealth, but good. He wanted to look good for her. He liked to think he'd matured enough in these past months to be able to admit that.

He brought a Muggle notebook and biro so he could take notes. Hermione appreciated diligent notes, and he hoped she might notice he'd adopted the Muggle tools. He was quite good at using them now-really, they were far superior to parchment and quills even with the Ever-Flowing Ink spells and Anti-Splotching Charms.

Fifteen minutes after he'd arrived and arranged and re-arranged his notebook, his robes, mulled pre-ordering her a hot chocolate before deciding it would be too presumptuous, then un-deciding about the pre-order-she _loved _hot chocolate-she arrived. She was different. The way she held herself, the way she had done her hair; it was half-way between the _old _Hermione and _his _Hermione. His stomach did a weird flip to see some of _his _Hermione in her posture and smile. His stomach did something closer to leaping off a cliff when he realized she was smiling!

"Hermione," he practically gasped. _Dammit! _He'd practiced his smooth, cordial greeting in the mirror for nearly an hour that morning.

"Draco!" She bustled to the table and set down her beaded bag on the table before stepping towards him. Was she aiming for hug? She seemed to hesitate at the same moment and thrust out her hand to shake it. Draco practically lunged to take it.

"It's so good to see you," he said, his suavity returning as he gestured at the monstrous hot chocolate that Fortescue's second-cousin was bringing out.

"Likewise," she smiled again, but it was a little tighter than it had been when she'd arrived. What had he done wrong?

She sipped at her drink and an uncomfortable silence settled over them. The thoughts he'd had-of confessing the words he'd wished he'd said before they had charged into battle, of apologizing for everything, of offering everything he had to help-evaporated. This was his one shot at redemption in her eyes, and in this moment it seemed so impossible. There were so many ways to say the wrong thing, and potentially none were the right thing. Somehow, in the time between that moment he'd chosen to save her from his Aunt and this moment now, she had become the standard by which he judged himself. And he found himself lacking, desperately so.

"I watched your memories," she interrupted his thoughts.

"Oh," was all he managed. That stifling silence reigned again. "I can't imagine why you're here with me then and no hexes are involved."

His voice sounded dry and hollow even to his own ears. She looked at him with that same piercing, inquisitive look he'd labelled as her "trying-to-ready-people-like-books" stare.

"Why did you pick _those_ memories?" she finally asked.

"I don't know if I somehow sugar-coated this in the Manor, but I was _awful_ to you at Hogwarts," he drawled. "There _aren't _other memories where I secretly thought you were beautiful and wonderful and questioned my prejudice. Those memories are the truth of how I treated you. And, well, I thought you deserved to know that."

Unsaid was his conviction that Potty and Weasel would have supplied damning memories of him if he hadn't. He would never forget the venom in Potter's eyes any time he'd hugged Hermione, despite their somewhat cordial interactions since that final battle.

"I don't think that's right," she argued. "We were in, what, tens of classes together, not to mention meal-times throughout our years at Hogwarts. And you don't have a single memory of just being in class and listening to the professor where I was in the background, not being mocked or teased by you?"

He blinked at her. Some Slytherin he was. He had picked only the worst of his memories like some self-sacrificing Gryffindor!

"Don't get me wrong," she continued. "I really _appreciate _that you included those memories. I can imagine how awful it must be to hand memories like that to the victim of your childhood bullying."

She stared into the distance for a moment, and Draco wanted desperately to grab her hand. He settled for clutching his own cocoa instead.

She cleared her throat. "Your memories were awful to watch. I know you told me we weren't close, but to see _you _as my enemy, as my torturer was so jarring. But, at the same time, it showed me how _strong _I was-I am-and how I got to be that way. You told me I didn't belong, believed it with every fibre of your being, tried to get me to believe it too, and I didn't bow, didn't break. Anything other than your nose," she grinned.

"So thank you, for dredging up those awful memories to help show me who I was."

"Any time," he murmured.

"I should hope not!" she shot back. "I really intend to retire memory charms for good."

"Your parents are doing well?" he asked. He knew they were, unless the Prophet had started doctoring photos. But he wasn't ready to continue this conversation, which had pulled so many conflicting emotions-frustration at picking _those _memories when there had been an easier choice, guilt that she assigned noble intention to that choice, hope that she might still forgive him.

"Yes," she gushed. "Somehow, somehow they have forgiven me for what I did to them and have really thrown themselves into helping me learn about who I was before- all this." Her hand was flapping wildly to illustrate "all this", and Draco ruefully remembered how he'd thought she was so graceless and uncoordinated. She was vibrant and alive and unrepentantly herself.

"I never really thanked you for coming down to Australia to help with my parents," she offered.

"I'll say 'never again' this time to ensure you know I don't intend on supporting another Dark Lord intent on killing your folks," he joked.

It fell flat even on his own ears, but Hermione laughed heartily.

"That's good to hear! I am also mostly sincerely hoping never to get embroiled in another conflict like this. I'd really like to work to fix the issues that led to it in the first place," she explained earnestly.

Draco deflated a little, remembering why she'd asked him here. The last few minutes of sharing had felt like friends connecting. Without anything behind it.

"Great," he forced out. He hoped his smile didn't look as hollow as it felt.

Her eyes narrowed a little, and he nearly panicked as he realized she saw through him. Part of him rejoiced that she knew him so well, she could read him as few could and part of him wanted to self-Transfigure into a teapot to avoid the rest of the interaction.

She took a fortifying sip of hot chocolate. "Or it's a bit of atonement too, I suppose." She stared straight into his eyes, her own wide with nervousness. "Looking back at what _I _did during the war-Obliviating my parents? Imperiusing crowds of people and making them fight and kill each other? Not just your father-in the final battle too. I Confunded people to find where my parents went… I didn't manage to save Charlie Weasley, and I didn't cry when he died, because I had cast dark magic on myself so that I didn't remember him. The list goes on."

"Your Obliviating your parents unconditionally saved them!" Draco argued automatically. "I know we looked for them, and we didn't find them. And your actions in the war saved so many lives! You picked the right side from the start and fought for it, and you fought hard. Plus, you didn't even know some of those spells were dark after your memory was gone."

She shrugged. "Did I really have a choice? The side that was going to kill me and my family or the _other _ side. Of course I picked the one that was _against_ my own enslavement or death or torture or whatever else he had planned. And I Obliviated my parents with my memory intact. And every person knows killing is wrong, Dark or Light spells aside. And I'm good at the Imperius Curse. The Ministry has pardoned me-times of war and all-but I feel like there are these stains on my soul that won't come out."

Her nail chipped a flake of dried chocolate on her mug.

"Anyways, I suppose I'm trying to fix it, to improve. I'm a mess half the time; I feel so guilty and sometimes for things I don't even remember. And worse for the things I do. I have nightmares and day-mares, if that's a thing. Ron and Harry and Ginny don't think anything is wrong. Ron insists my facility with the Imperius is somehow _your _fault," she gave him a sad, crooked grin. "Everyone seems to insist on making me a hero when I know I'm not and wants to gloss over all the ugly bits that got us here."

"I doubt it," Draco countered after thinking for a moment. It was rare he realized, that he really gave his opinion, rather than spouting the words that would get him what he wanted. "Your friends are really _good_, but it's not like they haven't seen darkness and made mistakes_. _Potter nearly killed me in our sixth year, for example, with a dark curse he read in a book and knew nothing about. I'm sure he blames himself for dragging all of you into danger your fifth year at the Ministry and for his godfather's death in that battle."

Draco paused thoughtfully, "And they forgive, _really _forgive. Longbottom, for example. I've been talking with him and, dare I say, even become friends. He's working with me to bleed my Aunt's account dry to build new facilities at St. Mungos for war victims. Including his parents who were tortured into insanity by said Aunt. He _knows _what I did at Hogwarts, he experienced life there under the Carrows and me.

"My guess would be that your friends love you and care about you and don't want to see you hurting. They know you and at the core believe you're good, so that's what they're sticking to; nuance and subtlety isn't their thing-I'll never know how you got tossed in with that lot! But Gryffs love a good heart to heart, so if you pin them down, you should be able to talk about all of this to your own heart's content."

She still looked miserable and fragile.

"Or you could talk to me," he offered. He tried to make it sounds flippant and not a desperate plea to keep him in her life.

The corner of her mouth quirked upwards. "What am I doing now?" she joked.

She nodded to herself, and her face hardened into the determination she was known for.

"Ugh, okay. Let's get down to business," she muttered, Accioing his notebook and pen from him. He pretended not to notice when she subtly wiped her eyes.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

They talked for the next two hours about some of the ideas she had for integrating Muggle and Wizarding Society. Some were easy-providing books on wizarding culture to Muggleborn students and their families to ease their passage into the world of magic or hosting a movie night for wizards to see Muggle films. Some were harder-creating a buddy-system where wizarding families and Muggle families hosted children over the course of their childhoods to foster better understanding and new friendships or creating a research institute that combined Muggle technology and magic to speed things like Muggle drug creation or create useful fusions, like a magical version of a cell phone. The notebook was full of text and drawings and diagrams in both their handwriting. For that brief time, Draco was just happy, spending time with her, working with her. She was brilliant, a shining star in the darkness of the world.

Finally, the shopowner informed them he was closing up, and Hermione babbled apologies to him for holding him up.

"So when should we meet next?" she asked. She was smiling again and holding his notebook out to him expectantly.

"It's yours," he insisted. _Next time! _He felt he could hardly breath.

"Tomorrow?"

"I brew with Severus in the morning…" the words were out before he could stop himself. He could cancel that! Why would he scuttle his own chances to spend time with her?

"Oh! Really? That sounds wonderful. It's still so remarkable he was able to save me for the cursed ring and then distill the curse to hobble the Dark Lord. It must be so incredible to learn from him! I mean, I know I had him in class, but… one-on-one. Anyways, the afternoon then?"

He nodded mutely. He still couldn't believe this was happening. They'd met up, and she'd _thanked him _ for his memories of his mistreatment of her. Then they'd brainstormed and planned. Just like old times, you know, back in the war when he'd basically kidnapped her and tried to brainwash her. Salazar this was bizarre. Maybe it was all some twisted dream.

She was twisting something on her finger. He saw the red flower flash between her fingers. How had he not noticed it before?

"Is that the engagement ring?" he spluttered.

"It's mine now," she defended. "It cursed me, so I think that makes it mine. Plus your mother gave it to me."

He nodded again. When had she seen his mother? This was getting stranger by the minute.

"Okay," she looked nervous. "Well, tomorrow then?"

He nodded for a third time. Gods, what was wrong with him? He couldn't even speak in her presence anymore. He was as tongue-tied as an awkward Hufflepuff!

She turned to go and offerred a tiny wave at him when that blasted, infernal, evil, stupid, supposed-to-be-caged, dratted, senseless, impulsive, _Gryffindor_, crazy, and did he mention soon-to-be-squashed part of his brain that had originally gotten him into this mess blurted out, "Do you want to go to dinner?"

"Now?" she asked.

"As a date," he amended, as if that answered her question. Seriously he needed to figure out how to excise that part of his brain. Maybe Hermione could briefly pause her moratorium on mind magic to help him. He'd just gotten more from her than he had any right to hope for-her smile, her thanks, her time tomorrow, and he had to be greedy and ask for more. Had to watch as she delicately turned him down, and slowly spent less time with him from the awkwardness it caused to spring up between them. Then he'd watch her romance in the papers with Weasel or maybe even Potter, her _real _engagement ring, her wedding, her kids… His own mother would set him up with that Pureblooded Quidditch player he'd been so set on, and it would be nothing like what he'd could have had with Hermione even with her just a friend. If only he could have just been satisfied with what he had and not gone and ruined it.

"So where are we going?"

"What?" he spluttered. His mother was going to have to re-enroll him in etiquette classes. What a mess he was!

"I said 'yes' to your dinner date, which, I might add, really spoiled my plan for asking you out in a grand gesture but I'll forgive you this once. _Then_ I asked where we are going," she stated slowly. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards again.

"Paris. Let's go to Paris for dinner," he responded.

"Okay," she laughed, and grabbed his hand looking expectant.

_Nevermind, _he mentally amended. _That blasted, infernal, evil, stupid, supposed-to-be-caged, dratted, senseless, impulsive, _Gryffindor_, crazy, and did he mention soon-to-be-squashed part of his brain was getting a raise, a promotion, and perhaps being put in charge for good. He was going on a date with Hermione Granger! _

Sure, they had the scars of war to heal, old rivalries to smooth over, society to rebuild, but suddenly all of that seemed so trivial, so easy in comparison to what he'd just accomplished. He'd fight harder every day for that brighter future with Hermione by his side…

"Paris?" she reminded him.

"Of course, my lady," he bowed dramatically, enjoying her snort of laughter, and they disappeared with a pop.

FIN


	32. Chapter 32

**Epilogue: Some scenes following the story. I may add more as my creativity allows. Enjoy! Also, the Italian in here is googled, so my apologies if it's off.**

The tawny owl flapped off, having delivered a copy of Witch Weekly, with a scrap of parchment on top labelled "XOXO, Pansy." He scowled. Why would he want a copy of that awful magazine? He wondered what he had done recently to tick her off and came up uncharacteristically blank. He must be losing his touch.

Then he saw the headline.

_War Hero Begs Brightest-Witch-of-the-Age to Come Back to Him!_

__Suddenly, he was very, very grateful to have the sneaky, socially connected witch in his corner.

Dread pooled in his stomach. _That_ night, the night she agreed to go on a date with him had only been a week prior. Merlin and their relationship was still so awkward-sorting through what she remembered, what had been real, when had become real… the evenings reading up on old curses and debating the ethics of wartime, it had all seemed so perfect. But from those conversations, he knew that Hermione wrestled with her demons just as he did-her castings of the Imperious, Stan Shunspike, her Obliviation of her parents and herself. She'd even been harboring guilt over the new knowledge she'd set Professor Snape's robes on fire until he'd called his godfather in to talk with her about it and she realized he had found the whole scenario hilarious in retrospect. Well, Snape's version of hilarious, which meant he'd chuckled probably.

How freeing must it seem to have a real bona fide good guy love you? Draco knew from his own experience with Hermione that that was a heady feeling, to be cared for by someone who you saw as wonderful. Would she realize how much better a real good guy could make her feel?

He flipped the cover open in morbid curiosity. He realized he wasn't even sure which war hero had thrown himself at Hermione.

Weasel, if the picture on the first page was anything to go by. Weasel and Hermione at a cafe, deep in conversation. The recently promoted voice in his head told him to put the magazine down; the likelihood anything it said was true was minimal. In fact, he sometimes wondered if the wizarding world's writers got their kicks from printing mistruths once Hermione had explained journalistic ethics and the difference between tablids (or something) and news to him.

But Draco found himself reading anyways.

_Miss Hermione Granger-War Heroine and lauded Brightest Witch of her Generation-was spotted in a trendy London coffee shop with Mr. Ronald Weasley-War Hero and Auror-in-Training. The two best friends have been spotted together with Mr. Potter numerous times since the end of the war (see past issues 896, 897, 900, 902, 904, 907-915, 917, 918, and special issue-Hunky War Heros & Hot Heroines for details). Close sources confirm that after her memory was erased by noted terrorist Bellatrix Black (see page 28 of this issue for a comparison of the two witches' fashion tastes in our new 'Light is the New Dark' section!) she is working hard to rekindle the lost friendships. _

Draco thought he could feel his brain cells melting and yet his eyes kept absorbing the words, waiting for the proverbial boot to drop.

_Miss Granger's Hogwarts roommate Lavender Brown, who has recently opened a popular Divination Shop in Diagon Alley-provided insight. "Hermione is a deep soul who makes profound connections and burns brightly for those she loves. She once stormed out of Divination Class when Professor Trelawney-the Seer who originally predicted the fall of You-Know-Who-warned about Harry's death. I am sure her spirit was calling out to theirs, despite the lack of memory."_

_When asked whether Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley showed sparks at Hogwarts, Miss Brown declined to comment. _

_But if our reporter heard correctly, Mr. Weasley has been fanning those sparks for a while. He asked the young war heroine (for an analysis of her outfit and where to find it, see page 45; for a Weasley-fit Workout regime guaranteed to make your man look as fit as our newest hero, see page 75) if she could see him as a romantic partner-_

"First, _where_ did you even get that?" Hermione's voice broke through his reading. He quashed the instinct to hide the magazine. She'd clearly already seen it and hiding it just made it seem like he was guilty or embarrassed. Which he wasn't.

"Second, I'll save your brain cells. I told him 'no, I see you as a brother,' which he took quite well and then we talked it over for a while in a _drama-free_ way that that _drivel_ completely misrepresents-"

Draco did not bother to hide the sigh of relief and surprise-she'd said no to Weasley!-before he realized that Hermione's hair was getting poofy in the way that suggested chandeliers and mirrors might start exploding from her ire.

"So you trapped Skeeter in a jar again?" he interrupted. It was amazing that the woman managed to almost single-handedly write for every publication in wizarding Britain.

"No, I've really tried to put a moratorium on evil or even borderline evil, remember," she huffed. "And I really did feel bad about that right up until I saw that article!"

"And you're mad because you can't retaliate?" he guessed.

"Oh, I have," she smirked, "it's just going slowly and I hate people prying into my private life especially as I'm trying to rebuild everything!"

She handed him a packet of parchment she enlarged from her pocket.

"Your mother kindly submitted a bill to the Wizengamot for me."

He read the title-"Proposed Bill 98,784,092: Modernization of Wizarding Libel & Slander and the Independence of the Wizarding Press"-and quirked an eyebrow at her.

"I've been working on it for a while with a number of experts. The lack of journalistic integrity and lies that came out of Prophet during the war helped fuel the conflict; the lack of a free press definitely contributed to how quickly the Dark Lord took over. After looking at what our American and European counterparts do, these laws should take a big step towards fixing some of those structural issues. It's just icing on the freaking cake it should knock that foul woman down a peg."

Draco nodded happily. Hermione had turned down Weasley and was winning her one-woman battle to fix wizarding Britain, no matter how much it kicked and screamed along the way (although at the moment, wizarding Britain seemed to be following her every step and clothing choice with awe). Life was good. Life was likely to continue past next week. And the most amazing witch wanted to be around him in that life.

She ambled towards the kitchen of his flat and set about making tea.

Which raised the question: how did she get in here? Not that he minded, but she hadn't knocked or come in through the Floo-he was pretty sure he'd have noticed. And, again, since when was she spending so much time with his mother?

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

The answer to the latter question was, apparently, knitting. Hermione and his mother had taken to getting together with Hermione's mother and knitting. Something about a bonding activity and it was soothing and really, did you know about all the mathematical and arithmetical concepts embedded in knitting?

She'd said it while holding up a pair of socks that had apparently incorporated old Norse defensive runes and proudly declared she'd never stubbed her toes while wearing them.

Still, magically protected toes aside, it sounded fake. Narcissa Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and Hermione's Muggle mother knitting together sounded like a terrible ruse. He wasn't sure for whom it was terrible but he was pretty sure it was terrible. Especially because, apart from the socks, very few knitted items emerged from this supposed knitting group. He was fairly sure-by the amount of legislation that was proposed suspiciously soon after these meetings-that knitting was not the only or primary purpose of these gatherings.

But, try as he might-and he'd disturbed a healthy handful of these meetings by _accident-_they always did seem to be knitting whenever he appeared.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

At the beginning of December of the following year, she gifted him a sweater, with intricate colored patterns-snitches and dragons and roses and hot cocoa and a few basilisk fangs-on top of an interesting textured weave. The morning he'd received the sweater-she'd gifted it him at lunch-sweaters were decidedly not part of the Malfoy wardrobe. That afternoon, sweaters were his favorite clothing item. He vowed to wear his sweater every day he could get away with it and bought several sets of designer Muggle jeans to go with it. Well, and a pair of leather pants that he thought had looked rather debonair but Hermione had vetoed on the grounds that he "wasn't in an 80s hair-metal band." Spoilsport.

But she'd kissed him afterwards and told him his butt looked good in jeans, so he wasn't really complaining.

His opportunities to wear his glorious sweater, admittedly, were rather few since he'd started as a trainee at the International Cooperation office in the Ministry and dress codes were rather formal. In a past life, he'd have argued that as a Malfoy, he set the fashions and the department should let him wear whatever he wanted. In this life, Draco wanted to do better and be better and wore his formal dress robes so as not to offend any visiting dignitaries.

So, the sweater was his go-to item for casual wear. The sweater was wonderful, made more so because he was forbidden from wearing it so often. Soft, warm, made by hand, for him specially, by the witch that he loved. He sometimes imagined he could feel her phantom hands one parts of the sweater as if she were knitting it around him. She'd looked at him strangely when he asked her if she'd add a charm to that effect. Apparently they were imaginary phantom hands. Regardless, there could be no superior item of clothing.

And thus, on December 20th, as he headed to the pub to meet up with Hermione and their friends, he proudly wore his favorite sweater.

"Seriously man, I didn't realize the Malfoy fortunes had fallen so low that you can only afford one sweater," Zabini chuckled as he clapped Draco on the shoulder and air-kissed Hermione's cheeks.

"Hermione knit it. Do you have any idea how valuable her time is? This thing probably costs more money than all of us have combined! You know how slowly she knits," Weasel piped in as Draco and Hermione slid onto the bench next to him.

"She's improved a lot since SPEW," Potter added.

"Sitting right here, with functional ears," Hermione said sweetly.

Draco grinned at her. He'd originally been nervous how he, well, how he and Hermione would settle in with her friends, but after several months of awkward getting-to-know you (and several more awkward months of Weasel's rebound girlfriends) and _far_ too much heart to heart conversation with the Gryffindors, he enjoyed the warm, friendly banter they shared.

"Hermione, caro mio, you have strengths and weaknesses, one strength is being able to identify your weaknesses, e la moda non è la tua forza," Zabini calmly stated.

"Va' in malora," she quipped back, turning in her seat to face the handsome Italian.

Draco sighed, as she and Zabini started their usual-and if his own limited mastery of the language was correct, rather insulting-Italian practice. Both of them embraced the large hand gestures of the language and frequently burst into laughter, which was distracting; more importantly, it left the rest of the non-Italian speaking plebeians among them (all of them) out. Then again, it made Hermione happy and she had had enough unhappiness that still dogged her to last a lifetime.

"Ugh, I hate it when they do this," Weaslette groaned. "I'll grab us more beer. Takers?"

Longbottom, Pansy, Potter, and the twins put in their orders to the youngest Weasley.

The rest of them had descended into a fascinating discussion of Quidditch that had-to the pub owner's displeasure-resulted in most of the flatware and napkins and pepper shakers' being transfigured into tiny players and balls so they could illustrate their discussion. Weaselette had been taking classes from Jane Pandroma-arguably the world's best Quidditch tactician-as part of her training on the Harpies, and the rest of them essentially threw scenarios and questions at the professional in their midst.

A burst of cold heralded Luna Lovegood's arrival but the chill soon passed and she nestled herself among the crowd, alternately chiming into the Italian conversation (her additions always got a hearty laugh from all three of them) and the Quidditch conversation (her additions rarely made much sense but once caused Ginny to gasp and pull out a notebook and scribble furiously).

Suddenly, Luna turned to face Draco.

"Are those Ogham characters in the knit of your sweater? It's a very interesting fashion choice," she mused in a tone that suggested that it was a choice she necessarily approved of. Given that she was currently wearing a vintage 1920s velvet flapper gown, thick blue stockings with cats on them, a shawl woven with thick, glossy black feathers and had (what Draco assumed were real) butterfly wings dangling from her ears he wasn't sure she was one to judge.

He was about to defend his sweater when he noticed that Hermione had gone still and was clearly listening, rather than loudly describing who-knows-what with Blaise.

Oh Merlin! Had Hermione really woven a code into his sweater? And he hadn't even noticed for weeks? How much of a dunderhead did she think he was now?

"Malfoy, if you vomit on me, it will be the last thing you do," Longbottom warned jokingly. Apparently his panic had shown. Lovely. He really was losing his touch.

"Luna, thank you. Everyone, I have realized that Hermione has likely woven some secret message into my sweater and I find myself needing to be elsewhere immediately," Draco said with as much decorum as he could muster. He stood up and bowed dramatically to laughs from the crowd.

Hermione kissed him warmly, to the catcalls of their friends, and said she'd see him tomorrow.

Her cackle of laughter as he left the pub fueled his determination to crack the message.

*** TR ** TR ** TR ***

At 6am he finally cracked it. Well, he and Bill Weasley who had kindly agreed to come help him after he'd nearly peed himself after laughing so hard upon hearing about Draco's plight. It had been good to hear Bill laugh, even at his expense. The loss of Charlie had hit him harder than anyone except Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Together, they'd determined that she'd used ancient Irish characters to encode English words within a cipher that changed every line, whose key words were given by the image atop that line.

_Draco, will you marry me? Hugs, Hermione._

Bill had ruffled his hair, said congrats, and yawned before stepping back through the Floo. Draco could only hope that a Howler from Bill's wife was not in his future from having absconded with her husband most of Friday night.

He'd worry about that later.

Right now, he had bigger things to worry about. Like how to respond to the witch of his dreams proposing via secret sweater messages.


End file.
